


Invulnerable

by imgoingtocrash



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asthma, Asthmatic Peter Parker, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bullying, Explosions, Fire, Fluff, Gen, Glasses, Minor Injuries, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Without Powers, Peter is Temporarily Unenhanced, Power Suppression, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Whump, minor depictions of illness, smoke inhalation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2020-09-26 21:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20396512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imgoingtocrash/pseuds/imgoingtocrash
Summary: Mister Stark shakes his head. The only reason Peter thinks that Tony rolls his eyes is because he knows the man so well, not because he actually sees him do it. “You enhanced, I swear…” Then Tony sighs, letting his previous comment go. “Peter, you’re only human.”That makes Peter rollhiseyes. Trust Mister Stark to turn his failure against whoever poisoned him or whatever into some kind of lesson. “I know I’m not perfect, Mister Stark, otherwise that guy wouldn’t have hit me with that gas, but—““No, no. I mean—whatever it was, it made youhuman. It’s—your powers aren’t working.”Peter is temporarily a non-enhanced individual. Tony helps Peter deal with some of the vulnerability involved with not being a genetically modified spider-kid anymore.





	1. you're only human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filling the Power Suppression square on [my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.](https://imgoingtocrash.tumblr.com/post/187273383509/invulnerable)
> 
> This fic is mostly just me having fun with the trope of Powerless!Peter and milking all of the fluff and hurt/comfort out of it I can, so if you have something you’d be interested in seeing, let me know in the comments or on my tumblr and I’ll put it on my list of possibilities!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_“You get used to it. The strength. One day you’re a scrawny kid getting D’s in PE. The next day you can…toss a minivan. Eventually it’s just a part of who you are. The part that no one can take away.” - Jessica Jones, 3x03_

* * *

“Mister Stark,” Peter insists, pushing on his mentor’s shoulder a little ineffectively. (He definitely doesn’t _whine_, because that would be immature.)

“Sorry, it’s just—“ Tony lets out another laugh, belly-deep. He puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder and another against the examination table in the lab, steadying himself against the laughter reverberating through him at Peter’s predicament. It’s not comforting to the worry that Peter came to Tony with, and it’s definitely kind of rude. “Oh, Pete. Holy shit. Only you, kid.”

“I knew I should have just dealt with it on my own,” Peter mumbles, crossing his arms. It would have at least saved him the humiliation, because clearly he’d been wrong. The symptoms he’d noticed as abnormal were probably just some temporary thing, they were nothing—

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Tony says, straightening up to cup both of Peter’s shoulders between his hands. (Peter doesn’t miss the tilt of Tony’s head, though, the way his thumbs brush Peter’s t-shirt and how his fingers fit a little differently.) “Look, Pete, you’re just not _dying_, that’s all.”

Okay, so _maybe _Peter had come to Tony a little dramatically. But there was good reason for his reaction. Last night he’d been the same old enhanced teenager as always, and this morning he’d woken up in his room in the Avengers compound unable to see clearly. On his blurry, memory-guided run to Tony that ended with a few uncomfortable slaps into the walls, he’d felt like he could barely breathe. Hell, he’d barely been able to tell Tony what was wrong through trying to catch his breath. Assuming that he was dying wasn’t a far cry.

“So what’s wrong with me, then? Why can’t I see? Why do I feel so—weak?”

Mister Stark shakes his head. The only reason Peter thinks that Tony rolls his eyes is because he knows the man so well, not because he actually sees him do it. “You enhanced, I swear…” Then Tony sighs, letting his previous comment go. “Peter, you’re only human.”

That makes Peter roll _his_ eyes. Trust Mister Stark to turn his failure against whoever poisoned him or whatever into some kind of lesson. “I know I’m not perfect, Mister Stark, otherwise that guy wouldn’t have hit me with that gas, but—“

“No, no. I mean—whatever it was, it made you _human_. It’s—your powers aren’t working.”

Peter looks up at Tony, squinting in an attempt to compensate for the half of his vision he’d seemingly lost overnight. “I—what?”

“Your eyes,” Tony explains, reaching into his pocket and producing his signature sunglasses. He taps the sides a few times for some kind of adjustment before turning them and adjusting them against Peter’s face instead. At first Peter’s not sure of the point, but his blurred vision suddenly clears. Tony is farther away than Peter thought, and he can now see every grey hair mixed in with the dark strands as well as the computer screens around them in the medical lab. “Are in need of a prescription. I’ve seen the old pictures from your Aunt, kid. You used to wear glasses.”

“I knew you needed reading glasses,” Peter mutters, realizing that the only reason Tony’s advanced eyewear contains this feature is because Tony needs it himself and doesn’t want to admit it by just buying regular glasses like everyone else.

“Hush. Now, as for the weakness, well, look at you! You’re kind of a stick.” Mister Stark takes the little doctor’s hammer from the tray of doctor’s equipment and taps at Peter’s bare arm, the short strike making Peter flinch. Peter’s sure the in-house doctors of the compound wouldn’t appreciate Tony’s misappropriation of their equipment. Not to mention it’s another show of Tony’s conclusion—his Spider-Sense didn’t warn him that was coming. “Don’t change your diet, like, at all. Even without the super-metabolism, you need to put on some weight, squirt.”

“You sound like a grandmother,” Peter grumbles, rubbing at his elbow. Mister Stark is clearly taking a victory lap, and Peter’s not enjoying the smug tone.

Tony picks up a stethoscope next, and pulls up his brow in question when Peter doesn’t relent to move up his shirt. “Chop, chop.”

“You’re not a doctor, Mister Stark. You didn’t even get your Doctorate in Engineering.”

“I’ve learned a thing or two. You know, considering the whole ‘improving a mechanism to keep my heart beating’ thing.” Peter makes his responding look as flat as possible. Tony rolls his eyes, and this time Peter can absolutely see it. “Work with me, here,” Tony pleads. Peter sighs heavily to show his displeasure, frowning when his chest stings a bit in response. 

Tony holds Peter still a little more easily than he should be able to. He puts the cold stethoscope against Peter’s chest and listens as Peter breathes in and out. Peter can’t hear anything different about it—no super-hearing, anymore—but Tony nods to himself. “I can tell what normal breathing sounds like, and that—“ Tony taps a finger against Peter’s chest. “Sounds a lot like asthma.”

Peter looks at his hands in his lap, slightly embarrassed. Being Spider-Man made a lot of things easier for Peter, outside of the chance he got to be a hero.

He used to be terrible in gym class—he always ended up walking the mile instead of running it. Before Flash, a middle school bully was fond of teasing Peter for his inhaler. Said bully also broke his already taped together glasses with both a basketball and a soccer ball on different occasions.

The things Peter is bullied for at a STEM academy full of other nerds are entirely different from the things he was bullied for in public school. With his powers, well…his old glasses and inhaler are probably gathering dust in his desk at home, and he’d been happy to forget about them.

“And don’t even get me started on the acne,” Tony says, breaking into Peter’s thoughts.

“The—the what?!” Peter says, maybe a little too shrill, quickly probing his face. He hadn’t even bothered to use the bathroom this morning before freaking out and tracking Tony down. Not like he would have been able to see himself in the mirror anyway.

“Oh, really? That’s what has you freaking out? Figures.” There’s a small mirror near the lab’s sink, and Tony hands it to him, rolling around on the doctor’s wheelie-stool like a bored child while Peter checks out his reflection. 

His hair is a mess of curls and tangles from sleep. Tony’s glasses are oddly fitted on Peter’s face—he’s not used to the bulky plastic and metal combination, but it’s certainly more stylish than his old wire frames used to be. Underneath, Peter can in fact see a few small clusters of red, mostly around his chin and forehead. He’d been in the midst of puberty—he still is technically—he’d just assumed his time of dealing with acne was over early at fourteen, not that the spider bite had effected his hormones this much too.

Peter lets out a breathless little “Aw, man,” at his reflection, which makes Mister Stark chuckle.

“I forgot that image is everything when you’re young. You probably wish you were dying instead, huh?” Tony is looking up at Peter from the stool, entirely too entertained.

“Mister Stark, you’re the most vain person I know, and you’re—“

“Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, we all have our vices. Jesus, no need to tell the world how old I am.”

“I should! You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m enjoying this an appropriate amount as one of the only humans in a room of powered people on every single mission.” Tony rhythmically slaps his fists on his thighs. “One of us, one of us!” The reference is lost on Peter, clearly, which causes Tony to raise his hands in a _why do I bother_ sort of gesture.

Peter hops off of the table, but his landing is far less graceful than usual and he frowns at his feet. Peter’s used to the feeling of being almost weightless wherever he goes—he often has to regulate things like his running and jumping abilities, even just as he walks around the city. Swinging around New York feels more natural to him than staying on the ground. Now, it’s like someone has tied weights to his limbs. Every movement comes a little harder, has to be earned rather than simply being fluid.

“Mister Stark, what am I going to do? I can’t be Spider-Man like this!”

“You could always take one of my suits for a spin,” Tony says, but Peter knows the offer isn’t exactly serious. The suits Tony wears look easy to operate, but they’re not Peter’s. His powers and fighting style are all about mobility and speed. The Iron Man armor is more equipped to take on heavy gunfire and hold the line.

“I’m not Iron Man, Mister Stark. Even then I can’t—“ Peter gestures to himself a little listlessly. His pajamas don’t even fit to his frame right anymore. The lost muscle mass makes him feel small, coupled with his pointy joints, straining lungs, and handicapped eyesight. He feels like even going out in the Iron Man armor like this would be gym class all over again, showing everyone how incompetent he is. “I’m useless like this!”

“Time out, Peter.” Tony holds his arms in an x. “You’re not useless. No one would ever—I would never say that about you, so don’t you do it either.”

Tony gets up from the stool and wraps an arm around Peter. It comforts Peter as much as it doesn’t. He feels even smaller against Tony like this, like Tony could bundle him up without trouble. Childishly it’s all he wants—the false reassurance that it’s all going to be okay and he’s valued for who he is no matter what. But Queens needs Spider-Man, not a wimpy Peter Parker and all of his faults. That’s reality, and he won’t let Tony avoid it.

“But, Mister Stark, without my powers, the city—“

“Will get by.” Tony uses his hold to guide them out of the medical lab that he’d initially herded Peter into. “I’ve got the remote-controlled suits, for one. And there are other powered vigilantes in the area, as much as Ross and his cronies have tried to stomp that kind of thing out. I can make some calls.”

“But—“ Peter tries, then fails to come up with another protest. In truth, he knows what it’s about. It just feels…silly, to admit. Then again, if anyone can understand Peter, it’s often Mister Stark. The question comes out quiet, mumbled. “What about _me_?”

His heroism is such an integral part of him, now. It isn’t about the suit—he’d learned that lesson. It’s about what the powers enable him to do, and what he can now no longer do without them.

“Pete.” Tony stops them in the middle of the hallway. Again, Peter feels small—Tony barely taller than him but feeling like he’s towering over. It makes Peter feel like a child. Being a superhero always made him feel like age was just a number, like he couldn’t wait to get past it and have people see him as old as he felt he already was. Now, looking at his mentor, he feels his age, even a little younger. 

Tony sighs, a precursor to what is clearly building up to being a moment with a capital M. 

“This isn’t permanent. At least, I hope it’s not. Even if it is—you’ll always have a place here. I know Spider-Man means a lot to you, but I recruited you because I met the kid _behind_ the mask. You’re smart, and you’re going to be involved in this in some way no matter how much I try to stop you, as we’ve learned from experience.” Tony shrugs, as if it’s all simple, as if being suddenly without his powers is just a normal bump in the road.“We’ll make it work.”

Finished with his speech, Tony turns, waltzing off to wherever else in the compound, leaving Peter with a clear dismissal. “Until then…enjoy being normal like the rest of us.” He turns only to give Peter twin daggers with his fingers. “And don’t break my glasses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glasses I’m imagining here are [these](https://tonydaily.tumblr.com/post/186780530067), since they’re more understated than some of Tony’s others.
> 
> The Marvel Netflix shows are sadly gone now, but I still loved them, so here's me throwing any of The Defenders a bone by implying Tony knows they're still kicking in the city and could afford to ask someone like Jessica Jones to keep an eye on things in Queens for the right price. (But hey, they mentioned The Raft before they were done! That's...something!)
> 
> Thank you for reading! I have a few chapters pre-written, so this will hopefully update soon!
> 
> In the meantime, if you want more IronDad, I’m hosting a gift exchange at the tumblr blog irondadgiftexchange, and it’s gonna be super fun! [Check out the announcement post here](https://irondadgiftexchange.tumblr.com/post/187202357490/what-is-the-irondad-gift-exchange-the-irondad) and give it a reblog. Hopefully you’ll consider participating when I release the entry form!


	2. sick (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is sick.
> 
> Tony knows this because he isn’t an idiot. For whatever reason—pride, avoidance, general teenager-ness—Peter has been trying to convince him otherwise for the past four hours, and he’s doing an absolutely pitiful job at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's sickfic time, babey! Enjoy!

_Enjoy being human_, Mister Stark said. Peter has found nothing to enjoy about the un-enhanced experience, so far.

Okay, well, that’s not true. He doesn’t have to constantly think about not sticking to things all the time, he just doesn’t. He also doesn’t hear their neighbor three floors down watching Golden Girls re-runs at three in the morning. (It’s not the worst programming in the world, but the amount of times a laugh track has disturbed his sleep. God.) He also has to be saving money on Aunt May’s food bill. She’s never complained about his metabolic needs, but he’s noticed the occasional extra couponing here and there, and he’s glad to give her a break from it, even just for a little while. 

(He’s hoping so hard that this won’t last much longer. He misses being Spider-Man the most.)

He certainly hasn’t missed wearing glasses. His eyes just…don’t work by themselves. How stupid is that? He wakes up and has to check his phone by shoving it inches from his nose. He can’t lay on the couch sideways or it’s uncomfortable and the lenses don’t fit over his eyes right. Also, while he’s at it—screw New York humidity. He goes from air conditioning to a rainy day outside and can’t see until he wipes at his lenses. So much for Mister Stark’s glasses being smart.

Peter blows his nose for the twentieth time today, the reason he’d started getting so riled up about his powerless situation again in the first place.

“Could be allergies,” Aunt May diagnosed, having heard a few of his sneezes at the breakfast table. For a nurse, she was surprisingly glib about any signs of illness from Peter. Probably too many attempts at skipping school in his younger years. “Your dad was always kind of wimpy too—he couldn’t help himself from catching something when a bug started circulating at work.”

She’d blatantly ignored Peter’s scoff at her implication of him also being wimpy, shoved a couple of daytime allergy pills next to his cereal that were possibly older than Peter himself, and left for the morning with a kiss to Peter’s head.

The good thing about not being enhanced anymore is that medication doesn’t wear off so fast. The bad news: at this point in his day, Peter is pretty sure this isn’t just allergies, so the medication wasn’t actually that effective.

“Maybe you should go to the nurse,” Ned had offered earlier, picking at his lunch tray. He’d left exactly one seat between himself and Peter. He had noticed Peter’s symptoms early in the morning and swore himself five feet away at all times to prevent catching whatever Peter clearly had.

“Ugh,” Peter replied, ignoring the cafeteria pizza that he hadn’t touched in favor of napping on the cafeteria table. He was particularly headache-y and stuffy from sniffing up more of the crap in his body than blowing it out like he knew he should. It’s just—he only had so many tissues with him, and blowing his nose constantly during class was disturbing too.

In the end, Peter stuck it out through the day and tried to touch as few things as possible to keep his germs to himself. (Flash hadn’t resisted making the crack of _Petri Dish Parker_, but even Flash’s friends admitted it was a pretty lame joke.) All in all, he’d survived the day to make it to the weekend. He can hole up on the couch with a barrage of cold medicine and Campbell’s soup until his stupid human body gets rid of this garbage virus.

Peter walks out of the school doors—_oh god bright sun how do you make these things sunglasses again oh thank god he loves FRIDAY_—and smiles when the shaded lenses allow him to focus on the pick-up section of the school’s front.

Peter often forgets about going up to the compound for the weekends—it’s a semi-regular thing, semi enough that he often ignores Tony’s AI Calendar alerts about it and instead chooses to be surprised if he happens to forget. It’s not the best of circumstances considering his state, but Doctor Cho might have some kind of super-antibiotic to rid his system of this crap, and then he’ll have the rest of his free time to tinker in the lab and continue working on this whole deactivated-powers situation.

Happy squints at Peter as he approaches. “You sick?” Peter snorts in response, his nose leaking due to the warm air of the outside. “Jesus,” is Happy’s displeased reply. Despite his reaction, he opens the car door and points to a travel-sized box of tissues nestled on the floorboard. “I gotta get this whole interior cleaned now.”

“M’sorry,” Peter mumbles. He does mean it, but he’s distracted by blowing his nose again. It’s starting to sting a little uncomfortably from being overblown.

“Yeah, yeah,” Happy says, shutting the door and getting into the front seat. “You going home instead?”

Peter shakes his head, regretting the action almost instantly when his head throbs. “Don’t wanna get May sick.”

Happy mulls his answer over for a moment in the rearview mirror, then shrugs, flipping his blinker on with the intention of going towards the highway up to the compound. “Your Aunt’s on pick-up duty Sunday night. Not my problem if you infect everyone with your gross kid germs before then.”

With that, Happy raises the partition between them, leaving Peter in the darkness of the car’s tinted windows. He uses his backpack as a pillow and closes his eyes, grateful for the chance to rest.

People would probably believe that Happy doesn’t like Peter very much, but Peter’s learned that gruff is kind of Happy’s default, an obvious clue to how he got his nickname. He gives Peter the same distance that Ned did earlier when Peter leaves the car, but he offers a kind “Feel better, kid,” to Peter’s back before driving off, and Peter knows that it’s a sweet gesture coming from him.

Peter walks into the compound, throws his germy backpack on the couch of Tony’s living space, and receives the most awful look from Mister Stark the moment their eyes meet across the kitchen counter. Okay, so maybe it’s not _supposed_ to rile Peter up, it just does these days, in that very teenager-y part of himself.

Mister Stark looks down at Peter—he’s barely shorter, but it’s always his hero, his mentor looking down on him in these moments, not just Tony, his friend, his—his _whatever_ they are to each other after almost two years. Tony Stark will look down at Peter with a quiet little smile, and he’s so soft. He’ll clean a smudge off of Peter’s glasses with his t-shirt, or fuss with the way Peter’s clothes hang off of him, or tell Peter to rest or take a break where he probably wouldn’t have before.

All like he’s just a pitiful boy made of glass that Tony suddenly feels the need to take care of because he doesn’t have powers anymore. 

It’s because of this stubborn need to be nothing like what he feels that Peter ignores his earlier thought to go see Doctor Cho. In fact, he doesn’t even sniffle as Tony looks him over. He’s not giving Tony another reason to baby him. He’ll just sneak some Tylenol during a bathroom break, maybe go to medical for something while Mister Stark is asleep and beg FRIDAY not to tattle.

“You okay?” Tony asks, a hand out as if to—a forehead temperature check, really, Mister Stark? He dodges it without the need of spider reflexes, swerving towards the fridge for something like Gatorade or juice—electrolytes, vitamins, all that jazz that’s supposed to get you better faster.

“I’m fine, Mister Stark,” Peter replies, definitely not stuffy at all. There’s a cough begging to erupt from his chest, but he holds it down by the grace of Thor himself in favor of a completely unsuspicious smile. “I’m just excited to get started. School was, uh. Slow.”

Tony looks unsure at first, but drops it in favor of clipping Peter with a more normal hair-tussle on his way around the counter. “Hop to it then, Underoos. I’m still stuck on your whole—“ Tony makes an all-encompassing gesture at Peter. “Thing. Times like these make me miss Bruce, but Cho and her team are doing their damndest dealing with me. Until then you’re on upgrading duty.”

Peter gives a thumbs up in reply, already halfway through a bottle of blue Gatorade when Tony turns towards the elevator. His throat isn’t exactly at its best either, he now realizes.

But that’s _fine_. He’ll slap back some generic medication, survive a few hours in the lab, and claim a need to do non-existent homework as an excuse to nap before dinner.

He’ll be good as new by the morning, and Tony won’t know a thing.

Peter is sick.

Tony knows this because he isn’t an idiot. For whatever reason—pride, avoidance, general teenager-ness—Peter has been trying to convince him otherwise for the past four hours, and he’s doing an absolutely pitiful job at it.

Peter came in the door with a nose red from friction, a half-open backpack spilling used tissues, and half of his words sounded garbled by his stuffy nose and weak throat.

At the time, Tony was…not _fine_ to let it go, but willing to see if it progressed into something worse. The pain and allergy pills that Peter snatched from Tony’s bathroom cabinet (Thanks for the heads up, FRI,) helped for a little while, but only as much as they could. They’re not the heavy duty symptom specific stuff he probably _should_ be taking, which Tony would have _told_ him if he’d _asked_.

(Vindictively, Tony almost turns on the classic rock at full blast when Peter walks into the lab, but backs out at the last second.)

Peter tries to taper down his symptoms as they work quietly in the lab, which only seems to make them worse. He coughs a little, trying to make it seem natural and treating it by drinking more of his sports drink. In actuality, Tony pretends to leave the room a few times so that Peter can have an alarmingly fierce coughing fit in the time it takes him to come back.

Peter blows his nose once in two hours. _Once_. At that point, Tony heard so many of Peter’s snorts and sniffles that he’d been trying to not-so-subtly shove a box of tissues closer to the kid every few seconds in the hopes that he would just _use them_. He’d had to pretend to blow his own nose with a blasé comment about allergies before Peter would take the bait.

The kid isn’t just sick—he’s verifiably, for the next week at least, sick with some kind of viral thing.

Tony knows the type. He wasn’t one to get sick often, which was why every time he did, it was strep, or the flu he forgot to get the shot for, and once, despite the only person he was kissing anymore being Pepper—mono.

Peter’s missed out on about three years of being sick thanks to his superpowers. If the karma and odds of the world weren’t already against him for that, well, he’s Peter. He doesn’t listen to Tony about taking breaks or resting his now-human body. The kid is pushing the same long hours despite not patrolling anymore by filling his time with extra credit homework, extra lab work, and addictively checking the police scanners around Queens.

Tony hadn’t been lying about the help—between suits he can control and the local handful of vigilantes he can’t control but is feeding tips to, the city is in good hands without its resident Spider. But Peter is Peter, always desperate to help and do more despite not currently being Spider-Man. Tony loves that about the kid, really, but his body has clearly caught the memo about not sleeping enough and going too hard, and Peter is obstinately ignoring it.

Well, he’d tried and succeeded to ignore it for those four hours. Then Tony walks back into the lab.

His break was real this time—he’s decided to give up the pretense of pretending Peter’s not sick and is instead ready to physically shove decongestant down the kid’s throat and use medical restraints to keep him in front of a water vapor machine. He’s got a glass of grape juice in one hand and cough drops in the other, and looking at Peter makes him almost drop them both.

At his desk, Peter has completely fallen asleep, his face pressed against the glass keyboard. (For a moment, he misses the clunkier keyboards of days long gone just for the chance to see the lettered imprints on Peter’s skin. Tony himself had certainly shown such a sight to Rhodey in their college years. In fact, he's pretty sure there's an old picture of that exact situation buried in a box somewhere that Rhodey used to get a kick out of pulling out at parties.) Peter is breathing deeply through his mouth, but it’s certainly not from the comfort of his hunched position.

“Wakey wakey, Spider-Baby,” Tony sing-songs softly, running a hand over Peter’s curls in an attempt not to startle him too much. The kid makes him irreparably soft, to be sure. It’s hard not to be all gooey on the inside when he’s being all…cute, or whatever. He remembers being annoying and snarky at sixteen, and maybe Peter’s a bit of that too, but he’s also incredibly kind and excitable, and it’s always bringing out a side of Tony that he’s starting not to mind so much.

“C’mon, Pete, that can’t be comfortable. Up.”

“Mmh?” Peter drowsily responds. He’s clearly still in the highly potent fog of illness and sleep. His eyes squint up at Tony before apparently deciding to completely ignore him in favor of more sleep.

“Oh, no no. You can sleep upstairs.” This time Tony shakes a little more, pulling Peter to stand when he responds. It’s not the most graceful the kid’s ever been, but his half-asleep brain seems to catch on that Tony is leading him somewhere, and he keeps a hand on Tony’s arm to follow. 

It’s a bit like walking a dog, Tony imagines. They try to go off course, you drag them back by the leash. Except the leash is Peter’s arm, and he’s more trying to fall asleep standing in the elevator instead of trying to piss in someone’s bushes.

Jesus, he needs to quit with the dog analogies, none of them are working out.

Tony brought the juice with him in the hopes of getting the medicine in his pocket into Peter with it, but it’s an awkward sort of struggle attempting to safely detach Peter onto the couch while trying to get the glass safely to the coffee table.

“I really, really hope you don’t have any weird allergies,” Tony grumbles, taking the pill package from his pocket and popping one out. He probably should have checked that before grabbing something from medical. Also, May is a nurse, she’d definitely know. Real good pseudo-parenting there, Stark, not bothering to check.

“Peter doesn’t have any known medication allergies on his file, boss,” FRIDAY supplies, catching sleepy Peter’s attention long enough for Tony to shove the glass of juice in his hand. “He’s safe on the Sudafed, too. The initial medication wasn’t extended relief.” Another thing Tony hadn’t really thought through. He’s really—well, he’ll think of something better than ‘screwed the pooch’ later.

“Swallow,” Tony transfers the decongestant to Peter’s palm. The kid takes it dry and sips the juice without instruction. “I thought I was really gonna have to go full charades with that one, good on you, kid.”

Tony swipes the glass from Peter just before he tips it onto the carpet. Not like they can’t replace it, but still. This whole situation is enough of a mess as it is.

“M’ster Str’k?” Peter mumbles, reaching out a hand like before and catching Tony’s fingers instead of his arm. “Sleep?”

“Yeah, Pete. Sleep. Here.” Tony removes Peter’s glasses with one hand, folding them and putting them on the coffee table. Peter’s too tired to care about it—lately he’s been kind of sensitive about Tony touching them for some reason.

Without his usual ability to stick, Peter lets go when Tony unlatches from his grip. A throw blanket Pepper is particularly fond of rests on the armchair, and Tony shuffles over to it, throwing it next to Peter, who only responds with a tired little “Hm?”

Tony sighs. Back to baby steps, then. “Lie down,” Tony commands, setting himself up next to Peter on the couch. He places a pillow next to his thigh and pats it a few times. Peter gets the picture this time, automatically reaching for the throw like it’s his comforter at home and settling in on the couch. “Dim the lights, FRI. I’m feeling _Top Gear_ re-runs tonight.”

“Sure thing, boss,” FRIDAY replies. The lights of the room dim around them, and the television plays his preference at a low volume with subtitles scrolling at the bottom just in case.

Just as Richard Hammond’s voice echoes through the room, Tony hears Peter’s whistling breaths falling next to him, a sign that he’s fully back asleep.

Peter wakes up warm.

That’s about the only pleasant thing he’s feeling, once he really starts coming into awareness.

Breathing out of his nose is no longer an option, meaning the cause of the drool puddle under his face is from sleeping with his mouth open. Besides that, his throat is definitely scratchier than it was before. And his chest—his chest feels swollen, he didn’t even know that was a thing that could happen.

It’s worse when his body decides his slight return to consciousness means he should cough. It’s been less than a day, presuming it’s now nighttime, and he’s tired of coughing, sniffling, and clearing his throat. Being sick is awful.

The cough turns into another fit, and it’s not helped at all by his already pretty garbage human lungs. He springs half off the couch with the effort—when did he get on a couch, anyway—clutching at his chest because it’s burning like hell.

“Jesus, kid, you sound terrible,” says Mister Stark, sitting close when Peter looks up mid-cough. “Where’s your inhaler?” Tony looks around like he’s about to go search for Peter’s bag, but Peter puts the hand that was on his chest against Tony instead, keeping him still.

“M’okay,” Peter says, barely covering up the wheeze that is his voice.

Mister Stark rolls his eyes. “We moved past okay about five hours ago, bud.”

“Five—“ Peter looks around, recovering from the coughing and reorienting himself. He remembers the lab and following Tony out of it, but not much else. “It’s really been that long?”

“Mmmhm.” Tony stretches, his back popping from clearly having been in the same position so long. “You’ve been out pretty hard.”

“I’m fine,” Peter insists, sitting up and scooting away from the hand Peter is sure was about to go into his hair. “It’s just a cold.”

“Peter.” Tony’s tone is full of flat disbelief, matching his face. And he’s probably right to be. Normally Peter wouldn’t be this stubborn when he’s clearly suffering, but Mister Stark had to lead him up here and felt like he had to babysit him all this time and—it’s embarrassing. “Why are you being so tetchy with me lately, hm? What’d I do?”

“You didn’t—“ Peter tries, but Mister Stark’s returning look is clearly not buying that. Peter blearily searches for his glasses on the coffee table and uses cleaning them off as an excuse to avoid looking at Mister Stark. “You don’t have to take care of me, is all.”

“Peter, you’re sick. Your aunt would kill me if I didn’t.”

“No, I mean—ever since I lost my powers, you keep, I dunno. You act like you have to protect me or something. Like I can’t take care of myself just because of…all the human stuff.” Peter finally puts the lenses on, feeling a little braver now that the subject is out there. “I’ve been through a lot, Mister Stark. You don’t need to worry about me just because I don’t have my powers. I’m not a little kid. I’m fine.”

Mister Stark takes a moment, quirking his head as if Peter’s something to study. He puts a hand out, letting it rest on Peter’s leg. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ll probably always be a kid to me, Pete.” Peter tries not to pout, but by Tony’s smile, he can tell he’s failed. “That’s just how this mentoring thing works. I think it was just…less obvious to me before, how young you are. I know you’re self-sufficient, and capable, and strong. You wouldn’t have become a hero at fourteen if you couldn’t take everything the world has thrown at you and more.”

Tony sighs. “Look, I can’t protect you from everything you’ll face as a superhero, no matter how much I want to. Not now, and not after I’m long gone and retired, either.” Tony shrugs, looking away, showing his own discomfort with vulnerability, but pushing through. “But I’ll always try to take care of you. I’ll always want to, anyway. And right now, you’re a little more physically vulnerable, and that means I can protect you in ways I couldn’t before. That means I’m helping you get over a dumb cold or keeping your glasses on straight when you can’t. It’s that simple.” At that, Tony scoots forward on the couch, tucking a few of Peter’s curls back and gently adjusting the frames that Peter can apparently never fit on his nose right.

“Oh.” Peter says, a little dumbstruck. He knows Mister Stark cares for him. Even if he doesn’t always say it, Ned once read a whole Buzzfeed article to him about people’s Love Languages, and he gets that Tony wouldn’t be around Peter if he didn’t want to be. It’s the suit and the money Mister Stark throws around, yes, but it’s his time, too. “Um. Thanks. I—I’m glad, you know. That you care that much.”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Tony replies. “Though I have to say, you do look pretty pitiful, right now. Not many people could resist wanting to take care of you like this.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Peter finally admits, reaching for the tissues on the table and blowing hard enough that his ears almost pop. He feels pretty crappy, and Mister Stark clearly hasn’t fallen for his attempts to brush the illness off anyway.

“Pepper came by. She dropped off some soup and her well wishes to get better. You hungry?”

Peter assesses. With his powers, it was rare that he wasn’t hungry, his metabolism desperate for calories. Now he mostly still feels pretty groggy despite the sleep, and his stomach isn’t the most settled from all of the gross fluids bouncing around in his body. He shakes his head. “I think I might doze a little more until I feel more like eating, if that’s okay.”

In response, Tony moves the pillow Peter was sleeping on, and raises an arm towards the back of the couch. The teenage discomfort riles up again—he doesn’t need to be cuddled and coddled.

Mister Stark raises an eyebrow, a clear, wordless signal:_ Are you really going to be stubborn about it if I’m offering?_

It’s awkward at first—wrapped in a blanket, curling himself into his mentor’s side, feeling small all over again. It’s nice, though. The idea that even this stupid cold can’t get to him, because Tony is on his side, and that’s always going to be better than facing it alone. It also just feels good, in the same way that May’s kisses to his head or Ben’s hugs brought him comfort in a way nothing else could. It’s warm and parental, and something he’s very happy not to resist now that he’s embraced in the feeling.

“I’m switching to ESPN. You’ll fall right back to sleep in no time,” Tony jokes, the vibration of his voice against Peter’s ear. He’s probably right—Peter doesn’t share the same casual affinity for sports as Tony and Rhodey, but he’s seen both of them use it as a tool for nodding off just as much as Peter does because he finds it boring.

Peter mumbles his agreement, and finally drifts off again to the sounds of Mister Stark’s heart beating under his head mixed with the tones of a passionate debate about the LA Kings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! All kudos, comments, etc. are appreciated as always!
> 
> Once more and I'll hush about it for a while: I'm running an IronDad based gift exchange @irondadgiftexchange on tumblr, so if you want more IronDad content, the participation rules and form to sign up are live [HERE!](https://irondadgiftexchange.tumblr.com/post/187351245918/hello-again-everyone-thank-you-so-much-for-your) The event works best with more participants, so please give it a look!


	3. everyday heroism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter decides maybe his non-enhanced body isn’t so bad after all. It can certainly still take a punch.
> 
> Or a hit to the side by an SUV.
> 
> Same difference.
> 
> Just because he’s not Spider-Man at the moment doesn’t mean he can’t help people. Everyday heroism is heroism just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick FYI—the chapters in this fic are not exactly in order in relation to each other. The first is the establishing of events, and then from there it’s me just playing with the non-enhanced situations with the assumption that they’re all occurring after Chapter 1. (TLDR: I’m rarely back-to-back beating the crap out of poor Peter, lol.) There may be some vague references to other chapters, but if something is particularly relevant/mentioned, I’ll let you know in the notes. 
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

Peter decides maybe his non-enhanced body isn’t so bad after all. It can certainly still take a punch.

Or a hit to the side by an SUV.

Same difference.

Just because he’s not Spider-Man at the moment doesn’t mean he can’t help people. Everyday heroism is heroism just the same.

A woman’s heel broke in the middle of the crosswalk, causing her to stop just as the light flipped from Cross to Do Not Cross. The SUV rolled up going forty-five in a fifteen.

There was no choice to make.

Adrenaline compensates for his shitty lungs and lack of muscle, but it doesn’t exactly get them out of the way unharmed. He hears the wet smack of his body against the car’s exterior more than he feels it. His earbuds get caught in the side mirror, billowing the faint sound of _Hotline Bling_ into the air as they hit the concrete under him. The landing isn't his smoothest either—he doesn’t catch himself flat, and he came down too fast.

There’s a beat of silence only filled by the regular sounds of Queens on a Thursday night—traffic, barking dogs, the muffled chatter from a restaurant’s porch front seating. It’s not as distinct as it once was, but it grounds Peter all the same.

“Oh my god,” says a voice next to Peter. He loosens his grip on the woman half under him, his muscles slowly unclenching now that the moment’s over. His arm twinges when he leans on it to sit up, but he ignores it in favor of watching the silver SUV roll down the street as if nothing happened. By the time he realizes his glasses flew off like his earbuds, the SUV has turned the corner and completely disappeared from view.

“Are you—?” he turns to the blurry form of the redhead he hopefully managed to protect.

“I’m—fine, holy—are you—?”

“Yeah, I’m—well, my glasses are gone, but—“

“Here, here, let me—“ They’re stuttering over each other, a few other pedestrians surrounding them and seemingly keeping another vehicle from getting close. She finds his glasses, apparently, and while there are a few minor cracks in the glass, whatever keeps them functioning as reading glasses seems to still be working, restoring his vision. “I can’t believe you did that! You saved my life.“

Peter shrugs the compliment off. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he says, following it with a laugh. “Honestly, that’s not even close to the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

“I’d hate to be your parents, kid.” The woman is chuckling a little when she says it. It’s a nervous energy between them now, the adrenaline still high and both of them unsure what to do in the aftermath.

“Peter,” he introduces himself, bereft of anything else to do.

“Beth.” Beth gets a hand from one of the other pedestrians surrounding them, then offers Peter her own.

A sharp “Ah!” comes out of him at her pull, the arm that he’d noticed before flaring up worse. He falls back to the concrete with another laugh. “Guess I didn’t stick the landing too well, huh?”

“Here, help me—“ Beth starts, and the man who helped her up and an older woman with surprising strength steady Peter onto his feet without jostling what Peter is vaguely hopeful is just some kind of sprain. “We should call 911, has anyone—?”

“A few of us did, I think,” says the older woman, her look down at Peter reminiscent of Aunt May, motherly and compassionate and maybe a little proud too.

“No, no, that’s—I’m fine, it’s—“ Peter sees the ambulance driving up the street and feels himself heating up. He doesn’t have powers and super healing anymore, but other than his arm he feels fine. Not to mention, he hasn’t exactly been to a hospital since the bite. He’s not scared of them, exactly, but the idea of them testing his blood, finding out what he is despite his powers not working right now—

“I’m going, Peter,” Beth says, sympathetic to his reaction. “I think you should too. And I’d really appreciate it if you went with. There are cameras all over this city, we can report that asshole.”

“No, of course, I just—“ Just as the paramedics are parked and hopping out of the ambulance, a familiar whizzing sound permeates the air above them. “Oh, no.”

“Is that—Iron Man?” At Beth’s question, the armor lands on the sidewalk, disengaging to release a very panicked looking Mister Stark. _Remember that joke about my parents?_ Peter thinks but thankfully doesn’t say.

“Oh, thank Christ, Peter,” Tony lets out, parting through the crowd of surprised bystanders and wrapping his arms around Peter with force enough to hurt Peter’s arm, and now that he’s thinking about it, his side too. Mister Stark’s look at Peter when he pulls back is nothing short of ghastly. “FRIDAY said—I saw the footage and—“ He brings Peter back in again. “You can’t—I thought—Pete.“

“I’m okay, Tony,” Peter says, betrayed by the sting of tears suddenly threatening to spill over. Tony had to watch the footage through from glasses and he thought…Peter can’t even imagine what that must have been like, and he was the one who did it in the moment. “I’m fine, I—“ This time when Tony pulls away, Peter really is crying in earnest, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I don’t know—it wasn’t that bad!“ Now that the embrace is over, he’s almost yearning for it, for hiding away in Tony’s arms and pretending he hadn’t just been _hit by a car_ because that’s crazy even for him, who does that even happen to anymore?

“It’s shock, Pete, just shock. Don’t apologize, it’s okay, come here.” Tony tucks Peter into his chest by his good side. Maybe his arm looks worse than he thought if Tony had noticed without Peter saying anything. Tony moves and Peter walks with him, his leaking eyes firmly planted on the ground and as much of him as possible hiding in the fabric of Tony’s dress shirt and suit jacket. Where had Mister Stark come from? A meeting? The lab?

“I’m riding with him,” Tony says. Peter looks up to the surprised faces of the paramedics. The idea of a man with a mechanized, flying suit of armor riding in their ambulance is probably the last thing they expected. “They’re both covered, okay? Anything her insurance won’t pay is on me too.”

One of the paramedics moves on to collecting Beth, but the other stays by Tony and Peter, biting her lip a little. “Sir, it’s supposed to be family only…”

Peter wants to be strong, to say it’s okay, that he doesn’t need Tony’s presence. But he has it now, and the world away from him seems insurmountable. His side is really pulling, and his arm might be broken or something, or they’ll have to reset it and it won’t just heal back right away. It’s…different, than when he’d get injured and it would all go away in the span of a day or two.

Peter clutches himself to Tony tighter, more obviously, the message clear: Mister Stark is family. After losing his parents, losing Ben…it’s crazy that he’s had such a short time with Tony, but Peter’s not afraid to admit that Tony Stark is one of the most important people in his life, especially now, in this vulnerable moment.

Mister Stark shrugs to the paramedic, who finally seems to settle and accept the situation. Tony detaches himself from Peter to lead them into the ambulance, settling Peter onto the stretcher and seating himself to the side.

He holds Peter’s good hand through the pain of the paramedic putting his other arm into a sling, and doesn’t let go until they wheel Peter through the doors of the hospital.

“I feel much better, Mist’r Str’k,” Peter slurs, leaning back into his hospital bed. They’ve already reset his arm and given him the pain meds. They’re waiting on the results about internal damage, but his current doctor—Doctor Malia, a curly-haired woman with a kind smile that Tony’s instantly glad to have on Peter’s case in the absence of Doctor Cho—is optimistic, apparently.

“That’d be the drugs,” Tony affirms for the tenth time.

“But—” Peter stops, the gesture he does with his hands distracting enough that he watches his fingers wave around in the air before he finishes. “Those don’ work on me!”

“Don’t worry about it, bud.” Tony pats Peter’s good hand down, knowing it’s not helping his doctor’s physical exam at all.

“Y’know why they don’ work?” Peter asks to the ceiling instead of Tony. “Cause I’m Spiiiider-Man,” he sing-songs, sloppy, proud smile over his face.

“Ignore him,” Tony pleads, making his tone as flat and disbelieving as possible. They’re dealing with general hospital staff here—God help them if someone treating Peter gets any ideas.

“I’m used to hearing things like that from a lot of my younger patients.” Doctor Malia smiles, examining the bruising on Peter’s side with her fingers, watching his face for any indication of irritation, just like she’d done when he first came in and was much less calm about being prodded. “He must be a big fan.”

“Ow,” Peter says as she pokes around his ribs. He’s so skinny that Tony can see Doctor Malia’s fingers brushing over them. “T’ny!” he practically whines, removing his good hand from under Tony’s and instead reaching around to slap at Tony’s face until he connects to run a hand through Tony’s hair, as if to pet his mentor. Drugged Peter is extremely tactile on top of being high quality entertainment. “Still hurts.”

“It’s okay, Pete. Just means you’re still around to feel it and get better soon.”

“Orrr you could fix it. Like your heart.” Peter moves from Tony’s hair to his chest, tapping at where the AR was once embedded in Tony’s chest. “S’ a good heart. I want it,” Peter states with the serenity opposite of a phrase also appropriate for some kind of axe murderer.

“That’s absolutely terrifying, kid,” Tony states, peeling Peter’s fingers from his chest and going back to holding his hand still instead. He turns his head at a laugh—May is back from her coffee run, still dressed in her own scrubs.

“I see he’s doing well,” she comments, passing a plastic cup to Tony. She takes the other side of Peter’s bed, brushing his hair back soothingly as Doctor Malia strips her gloves off and throws them into the bin.

“Optimism wins out today,” Doctor Malia replies with a grin at Peter’s thumbs up. “I don’t feel anything awry, and his internal imaging scans came back clean to match his X-Rays. The bruises aren’t gonna be pretty, but he’ll bounce back in a few months from that.” She watches Peter quietly for a moment, his woozy smile plastered on and obsessed with watching his fingers move again like they hold all the answers to the universe. 

“I’m sorry this happened to him—after we discharge him I’d mostly watch out for, well, his mental state—nightmares, aversion to cars or traffic, that kind of thing. The somatic response can be problematic too, in cases like these. Nausea, dizziness, and acid reflux can be really common as a bodily response to physical trauma.” Doctor Malia frowns. “He’s a brave one. I’d hate to see this all hit him the wrong way after the fact.”

“So you’re saying he can go home?” May asks.

“Soon, I think. We’re waiting to do urinalysis to be sure, but that’s all up to nature.” 

The doctor raises a brow at Peter, to which he replies “Red Bull’d make this faster. Makes me piss like a—“

“Thank you, Pete,” May finishes for him, to be polite.

“One time Mis’er Stark had me drink a whole case ‘n I almost—“

“_Thank you_, Pete.” Tony growls, because what happens in the lab when you’re bored and sleep deprived and testing the limits of your spiderling’s caffeine intake stays in the lab, thank you very much.

“I’ll check back in an hour. Buzz the nurse if he needs help.”

“Thank you, Doctor Malia,” May says, shaking the other woman’s hand before she leaves. Tony wonders if they’re friends or just passing colleagues.

There’s a long stretch of silence, once the doctor is out of the room. The only real noise is Peter kind of babbling to himself about vibrations and feeling all “swimmy” that follows with a few uncoordinated flips to readjust himself however he wants on the bed.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” May asks, and Tony needs no clarification. He’d seen the footage exactly from Peter’s perspective, and then again from a street camera. The face cam didn’t actually show much—a blur of Peter’s movement and then the glasses flipped toward the sky.

The other view…

“Yes.”

“So?”

“No.”

“Tony—“

“No, May, I’m not—it’s—I won’t put that on you. I wish I hadn’t watched it. He—he _crumpled_. There are millions of cars in New York city every single day, and in one _second_ he was just—on the ground. People described—I _heard_ the sound when he hit…” Tony shakes his head. “I can’t—I got the plate, and there’s a name to go on. Previous DUI’s on record and everything. The NYPD, SHIELD, whoever the hell can—we’re done with it.”

May studies him for a moment. “You’re not usually one to walk away from something like this. The whole…_avenging_ thing is your whole gig, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t walking away, May, this is—I thought he—!“ Tony buries his head in his hands for a second, taking the moment to breathe in and out. May’s tone isn’t accusatory, just curious. Peter is alive and mostly in one piece, and it’s okay, they’re okay. “Look, if I thought there was more for me to do, I’d be doing it. I did it. I gave them everything I had. If they don’t dispense justice, I know people who can, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Jesus, Stark, I’m not the mob!” May laughs, but softens a little sadly looking down at Peter, who is presumably drifting off to sleep. “I just—it doesn’t feel as real, not having been there. All of the other big injuries…I don’t know. Spider-Man was always on the news, so it was hard to miss hearing about that. This is just a normal, human thing, and I’m his parent. I kissed his little scraped knees, you know? It feels wrong that he’s just…out there in the world without me where things like this can happen.”

“I know,” Tony agrees. “I thought with the glasses, with his suit still around…but I still can’t protect him from everything, and it fucking sucks.”

“It fucking _sucks_.”

“Swear jar,” Peter mumbles, swatting his good arm lazily to both of them.

At Tony’s questioning look, May smiles, but it’s a dimmed thing. “We retired that a year before…Ben said it was a lost cause since we were the only two ever putting money into it.”

“Ah.” There’s another beat, as Peter seems to wake himself. Internally, Tony wonders if he’s considering his need to use the bathroom, and if Tony will end up escorting him there with a sample cup instead of a nurse if he makes that choice right this second. When he doesn’t move again, Tony asks “He’ll be okay…right?”

May hums. “The consequences never stopped him from saving people before,” is all she replies.

“Yeah,” Tony replies, watching Peter’s relaxed face phase in and out of whatever drugged ridiculousness is going through his head. “That’s what scares me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll keep a long story short here and just say that this chapter was inspired by some real life events that I dramatized and twisted around quite a bit. What better way to work through things than forcing them on your faves, am I right? Anyway, all is fine now, but yeah. If you hit a pedestrian and run, you’re a dick.
> 
> Kudos, Comments, etc. are always appreciated, as are prompts or anything you'd like to see with non-enhanced Peter and Tony. It's whump and fluff city in my brain and you're welcome to contribute.


	4. hang in there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite all evidence to the contrary, Peter doesn’t believe that Flash Thompson is evil incarnate.
> 
> (Well, unless he’s secretly a super-villain, but Peter’s pretty sure Flash doesn’t spend his free time secretly tormenting Spider-Man since he claims to love him so much.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to nebengeschaeft, who commented on Chapter 1 with something vaguely about Peter and bullying that spiraled into this chapter.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Peter doesn’t believe that Flash Thompson is evil incarnate.

(Well, unless he’s secretly a super-villain, but Peter’s pretty sure Flash doesn’t spend his free time secretly tormenting Spider-Man since he claims to love him so much.)

Yes, Flash is annoying, and that’s a frustrating element to Peter’s school days, but other than a few light shoves and verbal disputes, it’s not the end of Peter’s world. He keeps his head down and minds his business, and gives Flash as little material as possible to work with concerning his teasing.

Some of it may be Peter simply being too kindhearted. His aunt and uncle had been pretty liberal with talking-to’s about how other kids had things going on at home that made them act out in school, and Peter tried to be considerate of that even if it meant he was attempting to psychoanalyze the kid physically attempting to shove him into his locker in middle school instead of fighting back.

The point is—on a good day, Flash doesn’t actually pay Peter much mind. They share classes and academic decathlon practices, but their actual interactions are kept to a minimum. (Why it can’t always be that way, Peter doesn’t know. Something about Peter seems to set Flash off, be it his grades or his claimed relations to Tony Stark or the way his hair is sticking up from the New York humidity on a particular day.)

Predictably, though, when Peter loses his powers, it adds fuel to Flash’s fire.

The Oscorp field trip occurred just before he finished the eighth grade, so Peter came into high school with his powers. Any of his classmates from his old school that ended up getting into Midtown were, in majority, ones he got along with due to shared levels of nerdiness and years spent being the targets of public school bullying. They hadn’t cared to mention that Peter had lost his glasses and bulked up a little over the summer because it wasn’t that abnormal—teenagers swathed in new hormones and social pressures tended to change their physical appearances often.

Coming back to school after losing his powers already made Peter nervous. He looked in the mirror on the Sunday night after he’d come to Tony with the problem long enough that May had knocked on the door and kicked him out of the bathroom.

It was just—hard, to look in the mirror and see someone so different than what he was used to. It was who he would have been, in another life: a scrawny, pimply teenager whose lungs saw fit to betray him at any hint of too much movement, and whose eyes had long past surrendered to years of screen abuse and the familial inheritance of astigmatism. It’s who he is now, who he’ll always be if they never figure out what in that gas is suppressing his spider-genes.

May almost made it worse. She could clearly tell he was stressing about it—adjusting his clothing where it wasn’t as tight fitting all morning, triple-checking his backpack for his inhaler—all dead giveaways even if she hadn’t raised him all his life.

She caught him on the way out of the door, doing some of her own fussing to tame his hair and clean his glasses off with a cloth from her own reading glasses. “It’s gonna be fine, sweetie,” she hummed, kissing his cheek. “I loved this Peter way before he was all superpowered, hm? You might be even cuter like this.”

_Cute?_ That’s what they always said about the five year old girl who lives three doors down because she had braids and gap teeth. 

“Ugh, May!” he groaned, wiping at where she kissed his cheek. It was a petulant action and only seemed to make her laugh.

No one was taking the social ramifications of his un-enhanced predicament seriously. Well, except for Ned. He’d been updated that something had happened via text over the weekend, but actually seeing Peter was something entirely different.

“Dude,” he says, catching Peter at his locker before the first bell. “I forgot you used to be so tiny.”

“May called me cute,” Peter laments, briefly considering smashing his locker door into his head for dramatic effect.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. You should’ve seen Mister Stark, he couldn’t stop laughing.”

“So what are you going to do? You can’t, you know—“ Ned makes inverted sort of devil horns with his hands, indicating Spider-Man. “Right?”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s not like I can swing around without the strength. Tony offered his suits, but I don’t think he was being serious, and it’s not the same.”

“I get it,” Ned replies with a pat to Peter’s shoulder. “Though, if he’s offering…”

Peter finally laughs at that. “I’ll be sure to mention it to him.”

Of course, when Peter’s first morning at school un-enhanced finally starts looking up thanks to Ned, Flash is quick to zero in on Peter’s changed appearance and make the first strike.

“Oof, Penis, I didn’t think you could be any more of a dork, but those glasses? Yikes,” he begins the minute Peter walks into the second period class that he and Flash share.

Without Ned as backup, Peter goes for the route of ignoring the comment entirely. Often without an audience, Flash is quicker to back off.

By lunch, Flash has escalated to pointing out every physical chip in Peter’s metaphorical armor. The acne breeds comments about Peter being gross. The glasses are deemed either too nerdy or too hipster depending on the crowd of peers.

He and Ned start a point system for the categories of material Flash is constantly retreading that first week, but they run out of space on their scrap paper by week two and finally give up.

Gym class with Flash certainly doesn’t help. Where before Peter had to fake being entirely average pretty hard, now he’s struggling to be only moderately terrible. Maybe Doctor Cho could have fabricated a doctor’s note for his condition to get him out of it, but Peter hadn’t asked. What, he suddenly had asthma that would probably go away in a short time? It wasn’t worth the trouble to try and explain to the school. 

Not to mention, gym class at a STEM-based school is about as mild as exercise can get save the required fitness tests every few months. The laps can be walked and the daily sports activity or free time can be dedicated to anything as long as it involves moving around a little. Aside from the climbing rope or running a mile, Peter is relatively safe.

Flash, of course, picked up on even Peter’s minor struggle. He is sweating during warm-ups. A lot. If this is because of his out-of-wack hormones or the fact that physical action was previously effortless, Peter doesn’t know. Either way, Ned is coaching Peter to continue through the required jumping jacks and push-ups far more than Coach Wilson, who looks suspiciously close to pity for a man whose general set expression is nonplussed.

In his usual tactic, Peter’s not paying any attention to Flash. His lack of spider reflexes keep him ignorant when his fellow student uses a moment of their teacher’s distraction to slip a foot under Peter’s quivering arm muscle—just enough to unlock Peter’s muscles and send him face-first into the wooden gym floor.

Peter’s forehead and nose hit thankfully before his glasses, saving them from breaking but not sparing Peter any of the minor pain of connecting with the floor. He must let out an audible cry of shock, because Flash very clearly chuckles to himself before he lazily drops into his own push-up stance about five feet away, just as the teacher’s head turns.

“Don’t puke on my gym floor, Parker,” Coach Wilson grumbles. “Or do, I guess. Not like I’m the janitor.”

Flash certainly garners a few laughs from their classmates from that. Flash is rarely actually clever with his bullying tactics, but physical comedy is different. Even if the other students have nothing against Peter personally, watching him get knocked down was probably at least reflexively entertaining. Especially when Peter is so uncoordinated and likely not to catch himself.

This ignites a new strategy for Flash.

Before, it wasn’t that Peter _wouldn’t_ fight back. He just didn’t make it easy for Flash to push him around. He’d simply dodge a shove, stick to his textbooks so they couldn’t be knocked away, or lock his super-muscles to take a flick or punch in non-reactive stride. Not only did it discourage Flash from picking on Peter, but it sometimes had the unintended effect of making Flash look like an idiot for trying.

Now, Peter doesn’t have his innate warning system, nor the physical strength and grace to simply dodge the onslaught of whatever Flash concocts.

As before, it starts mildly: shoves to Peter’s locker door while his limbs are still inside, the slip of a foot under Peter’s causing a scattering of Peter’s books and papers across the hall. 

One Friday, Peter comes to the Avengers compound entirely covered in his dried, disgustingly fragrant lunch because Flash had flipped the tray covered in the potently staining mix of applesauce, ketchup, and a sandwich directly into Peter’s face and chest. They’d had a class health day instead of gym, meaning Peter didn’t have his gym clothes to change into, either. Of course.

“So?” Mister Stark asks, having seen Peter’s state the moment he arrived at the compound. Peter opted not to comment in favor of showering and changing his clothes, but when Tony met him in the kitchen area with a variety of snacks instead of the lab, Peter had a feeling he wasn’t going to let the matter simply drop.

“It’s nothing,” Peter deflects, swabbing a carrot stick through peanut butter with more purpose than the task requires. At Tony’s non-response, Peter knows it’s not enough of an answer for his mentor. “It’s nothing more than normal. It’s just—“ He shrugs. “High school is high school.”

“Ah,” Mister Stark replies. “Your usual guy? Frak?”

“Flash,” Peter corrects, though the idea of Flash instead being reduced to a science fiction curse is entertaining enough to rise the smile he’s sure Tony wanted from the comment.

“How is that _worse_?” Tony mutters more to himself through a mouthful of chips. “Don’t belittle this, Pete. Just ‘cause he’s always a jackass doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

“It’s nothing I couldn’t handle before,” Peter replies. Tony gives him a look—the reminder that the Peter of this moment is different from the one of before in a way that makes Tony overprotective. “It’s fine, Mister Stark. Seriously it’s just—same old Flash. He’ll move on.”

“He better,” Tony threatens mildly. “I skipped 3/4ths of high school to avoid high school drama, and here you are, dragging me back in.” He shakes his head, dusting off crumbs on his jeans in a way that would probably make Aunt May and also Miss Potts angry. “Let’s not waste anymore time on him, huh?”

“Sure thing, Mister Stark.”

Peter has never needed his inhaler at school before. It’s been a few weeks, and he’s been slowly adjusting to this whole un-enhanced human thing. Despite Flash’s poking and prodding, Peter is going to the compound still, and doing what he can around Queens in replacement of Spider-Man-ing, and it’s—fine. He misses patrol and the perks of being superpowered, but he’s making it through okay.

How his sudden need for his inhaler is also connected to him ending up in Principal Morita’s office is a bit of an ordeal.

“Flash alert,” Ned warns. Since noticing Peter’s impairment, Ned is Peter’s back-up in avoiding falling twenty times a day. Not exactly Guy In The Chair material, but helpful just the same in Peter’s book.

Except, well—Ned’s warning can tell him that Flash is _there_, not prevent what he’s actually going to _do_ in Peter’s presence.

Peter’s backpack is on the floor by his feet one moment, closed but awaiting Peter to place his advanced chemistry textbook in it. The next, it’s in Flash’s arms, accompanied by a teasing grin.

“Come and get it, Penis!” Flash mocks, already across the hallway with Peter’s belongings by the time Peter turns around.

Now, Peter’s a pretty smart person. Most people that know him—especially Mister Stark and his Aunt May—are pretty quick to confirm that. He can recognize that Flash is baiting him.

Peter and Ned share a look, both acknowledging this.

And yet.

When Peter thinks about it, his bag isn’t exactly something he’s willing to lose to Flash’s whims. Not only because it has his homework, or his scribbled design ideas, or half a package of Doritos he hadn’t finished at lunch inside. At the very bottom, under the school-related materials that are supposed to be there, is his Spider-Man suit.

Maybe a part of him just wanted to be over-prepared. Another was unrealistically hoping that one day, when the need arose, he would put on his suit in an emergency and suddenly realize his powers were back.

Now his very expensive, tailored-by-Tony-Stark-himself super-suit is in the hands of Peter’s high school bully. Not good.

Ned gives Peter another look after watching his facial journey of these facts. “Don’t do it.”

“I’ll be right back!”

“You really shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, but,” Peter makes Ned’s preferred Spider-Man hand gesture.

“Oh my god, seriously?! Why would you bring—“ But Peter’s gone off down the hall by that point, dodging fellow students and ducking under the eye-lines of as many teachers as possible. 

Peter almost catches up to Flash as he rounds the corner of the hallway more towards the lab rooms, but once Flash realizes his plan has worked, he speeds up the stairs, forcing Peter to follow.

Peter’s been up the stairs at Midtown quite a few times now, but they’ve never felt this _daunting_. How many stairs could there even be? Were they always this steep? The journey feels endless, even when Peter takes a break halfway up. He hacks a few times when he breaths in, feeling the way his lungs are pulling against the action. The coughing is so loud a few students give Peter concerned looks as they pass him by. Someone even asks if he needs to go see the nurse, to which he shakes his head and tries to continue up the stairs only partially successfully.

God, his lungs are stinging even worse than they were when Peter ran to tell Mister Stark about losing his powers before. He also understands that whole thing about jelly legs, because his muscles are not used to this kind of excitement. It’s possible he should be working out this human body more than he is, though he’s not sure it would help.

“Giving up, Parker?” Peter holds tightly to the stair bannister, looking up at where Flash stands, cockily swinging Peter’s bag around in circles like a lasso.

“C’mon, Flash,” Peter—well, he begs. He has to admit that. “What’s the—“ He coughs, then breathes in with a wheeze. “What’s your deal, man?”

“_My_ deal?” Flash laughs, comfortable that this is still a joke, a game he’s winning. Okay, yep, classic Spider-Man mistake, all of the taunting and teasing the bad guys. Usually he can back it up, but now? Not so much. He also doesn’t need his Spider-Sense to know that Flash is about to do something really, really crappy. Flash walks closer to Peter, trapping his arms—then promptly throws the bag through the opening between the up and down stairs, sending the bag straight to the first floor where they started. “Looks like you’re the one with the problem, Penis.”

Peter sighs. At least nothing in there was breakable. The suit can take a hit, and Flash presumably didn’t get a look at it. The sigh is deep enough to cause another fit of coughing. Peter starts back down the stairs, but Flash moves quickly, very telling of his name.

“Not so fast,” Flash warns, the surprise of his presence startling Peter off the top step of the stairs and to the ground, practically knocking Peter into a group of students that are just trying to get to class around them.

Peter realizes his heart is pounding. He knows it should be all of the excitement, but it’s more the air—the shove knocked the wind out of him and he already can’t—his breath—

“I can’t—“ Peter presses a hand to his chest, the other frantically searching his pockets. “I need—“

Oh, yeah. Now he remembers. His backpack also contains his inhaler.

But Flash is in front of him. What he plans to do, exactly, isn’t clear, but it’s a pretty obvious Unstoppable Force vs. Immovable Object situation if Peter’s ever seen one. Peter stands, ignoring his strained muscles.

The plan is simple. Shove and run. Except Flash keeps up the immovable part of the deal, shaking his head at Peter’s attempt with another peal of laughter that Peter seriously considers a little villain-y. God, he misses super-strength. And Flash being way less persistent about this whole bullying thing. He’s made the guy way too confident.

Peter is generally against violence when he’s not Spider-Man. Even when he is in his heroic identity, it’s ten times easier to web people up than it is to try and physically disable them.

Not to say Peter doesn’t know how to throw a punch. In fact, Happy, in all of his grumpy glory, was once told to teach Peter exactly how to throw a punch, just as he’d instructed Tony to box quite a few times in the early days of his heroism.

It really isn’t surprising that Peter gets Flash directly in the face. The issue is that someone apparently taught Flash how to_ take_ a punch, which results in Peter ending up right back on his ass on the floor, his glasses flying off to God knows where as they tussle. Peter is trying to hold Flash off. Flash is attempting to strike back while screaming “You’re dead, Parker!”

So. That’s how Peter ends up in the waiting room outside of Principal Morita’s office, cradling his broken glasses while Flash seethes next to him, holding an ice pack to the very prominent shiner Peter gave him.

Somehow, Peter knew it wouldn’t be Aunt May who showed up. It should be, because she’s his only real legal guardian left, but she’s also working the day shift today, and his glasses—he’s pretty sure Mister Stark is keeping an eye on Peter through them, when he feels like he has to. The fact that Peter got into a fight is probably one of the reasons why he does. Peter has a hard time staying out of trouble.

“You remember I have a heart condition, right?” Mister Stark announces himself with, not looking away from his phone upon entering the waiting area of the principal’s office. Peter decidedly looks just to the left of his mentor, instead studying the very tasteful cat poster hung by the currently absent secretary’s desk. _Hang in there_, it reads, displaying a precariously gripping orange tabby kitten. Oh, poster kitten, he’s trying. “Because I was fairly certain, considering the shrapnel that once hovered precariously over my chest, that I didn’t need to spell it out for you.”

“Now imagine the way my heart slapped around when I saw your vitals spike before dropping completely mid-meeting, and then gained the responsibility of being an adult for you because your Aunt is working a job that doesn’t allow her to duck out whenever she pleases.” Finishing his lecture—complaining session?—Tony finally pockets his phone. “All because you, what, got into an argument too loud with someone about if Kyle Ron or Fen is the better Star Wars character or—“

That’s when Mister Stark finally turns and looks at Peter. He stops, his mouth still half open, his eyes a little comically wide. Then he steps closer, essentially forcing Peter to look at him. “Ho-_ly_ shit,” he says in disbelief, sort of squatting down to his knees to reach Peter’s level in the uncomfortable office chair. He takes a hand to Peter’s face, investigating whatever licks Flash got in during their mostly brief altercation. He pokes a spot on Peter’s forehead and keeps his grip on Peter’s face despite his flinch. “You got into a _fight_.”

Peter shrugs and mumbles out “Guess so,” bereft of anything but the obvious. He sneaks a glance at Flash to his right. He may be having some kind of mental break, considering how he’s gone completely still, the ice from his pack melting onto his jeans in quick little drips.

“Oh, no, no, kiddo, I need a minute here.” To illustrate, Tony rises from his crouched position with a slight pop of his knees, running a hand through his hair and pacing in a few quick circles. He seems to start a sentence, then abandons it to breathe out a little laugh. “You—Peter Parker, champion of the doe eyes and friendly, neighborhood goodness—_you_, of all kids in the world, being what you are right now, got into a physical altercation at school.”

Tony takes that moment to look over at Flash. Flash seems to collect enough braincells together to wiggle a few fingers at Mister Stark as he examines the high school bully that Peter’s shared a few unpleasant stories about. The black eye is blooming pretty obviously behind Flash’s ice pack, and Peter thinks he may or may not have gotten in a couple of defensive scratches and kicks towards the end.

“Oh my god, you did_ that_. I’m kind of proud. Like, eighty-five percent concerned for your safety, twelve percent pissed-slash-disappointed or whatever I know I’m supposed to be, and like…three percent super proud. That’s too much, I gotta tone it down. More stern-but-in-a-loving-way Aunt May vibes. If I start sounding like my dad, you redirect me, I’m new at this.”

“I…” Peter isn’t exactly sure how to respond to that barrage. Usually between the two of them Peter is more talkative. Still, it is hard to imagine himself in this position a month ago. He’d have been shocked too. He’d gone so long without giving Flash an inch, let alone a mile. Now it’s spiraled into…this.

“I broke the glasses,” is all he comes up with, lifting the frames limply. The frames themselves are missing one of the earpieces, and one of the glass lenses is cracked inward from where they hit the floor (or possibly, Flash’s fist).

“I don’t actually care about—“ Tony sighs, returning to his crouch with a grumbled complaint concerning his body’s protest. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Pete.”

“But—“

“No, here, look.” Tony takes off his sunglasses. They’re bigger and flashier, the color his preferred shade of red instead of the more subtle black. He makes a few familiar swipes, flipping them around much like the first pair he’d presented to Peter. Similarly, he places the frames against Peter’s nose and tucks the earpieces in place underneath his hair. “See? Replaced. Done. I can fabricate new ones easy. You,” he continues, moving his hands to Peter’s shoulders. “Are more important than the tech.” He breaks the moment to twitch his face into a teasing smile. “Most of the time. Sometimes.”

Peter grins despite the situation and leans into Mister Stark’s touch at first, pleased with the comfort after a hard day—after all this time faced with Flash’s creative barrage and resisting the urge to lash out in return.

Then he remembers that Flash is just sitting there, probably gaping like a fish and also possibly thinking of how to use this as ammunition the minute they’re next alone without adult supervision. “Mister Stark…” he looks back to the kitten poster, his face warm. Hanging in there, right. Just gotta get through this disaster of a day and it’ll all be fine.

“Right, right, onto business.” He looks towards Flash, using his most Former CEO and Majority Shareholder of Stark Industries stance as he rises away from Peter. “Let’s hear it, Flux. Must’ve been pretty serious to irritate Petey here. Kid’s like a kicked—ah, I swore off of dog similes, you get it.”

“I—I—Mister Stark, I—“ Flash stutters, still looking between him and Peter like they’re a fabrication of his mind.

“If this was all about meeting me, I gotta say, wrong avenue. Making nice with Peter probably would have been a better start. Now I have to hold a grudge on Peter’s behalf and it makes stuff like signing your merch awkward, you know?”

“I didn’t even think he knew you,” Flash blurts, the ice pack slipping to the floor. He ignores it in favor of trying to dig himself out of his own hole. “Nobody thought—it wasn’t about you, Mister Stark, I just—Peter—“

“Ohh, okay, okay, got it, so it’s about _Peter_. Jesus, kid, what’d you do to him?” Tony asks towards Peter, but it’s clearly rhetorical. Peter hasn’t done anything to Flash, directly. (Okay, so he crashed his car, but Mister Stark paid for that, and technically Spider-Man did that, so it doesn’t really count.)

“He—I—it was just…teasing.” Flash admits, sulking with crossed arms, not afraid to be stubborn even in the presence of Iron Man. 

“Uh-huh.” Tony turns back to Peter, his tone deceptively, forcefully light. “Say Peter, why did your vitals freak out?” Tony turns to Flash again. “He has a medical condition, you know. I keep track of that. Peace of mind for his aunt, a little bit of privacy violation for me, it all works out.”

“Mister Stark, you don’t have to—“ Peter tries, knowing it can’t be going anywhere good based on his interrogation with Flash up to now. He crosses his fingers for the return of the secretary and Principal Morita—they stepped out to deal with some kind of lab accident and he and Flash have been sitting in silence waiting for their return since.

“No, no, the curiosity is killing me. Because to me, your readout looked a lot like an asthma attack, which I specifically provided a shiny new inhaler to treat, no?”

“I’m okay, they got my inhaler after—“

“_After…_?”

“Fine, I stole his bag!” Flash grumbles petulantly. “It was just a joke! He’s the one who started freaking out and punched me, so I hit him back!”

“I couldn’t breathe!” Peter shouts, incredulous.

“Not my fault you can’t even climb some stairs, Pen—“ Flash catches the insult before it finishes, falling back into his chair with a huff. “Whatever.”

His sudden silence lines up with the appearance of Principal Morita. He’s attempting to look stern, but he’s possibly a little impressed with Tony’s questioning, if he’d caught it. 

“You don’t take a day off, do you?” the principal asks, shaking Tony’s hand and distracting both Flash and Peter from arguing with each other.

“Considering how your pal Steve and I are getting along these days, you can understand I’m not the best at conflict resolution. Gotta practice.”

“We only met once shortly before the Battle of New York, Mister Stark. It was my grandfather who knew him better.”

“So what you’re saying is…Iron Man stan for life?”

Principal Morita smiles, but the comment seemingly slides off in favor of getting down to business. “May Parker called to let me know you’d be coming. I didn’t realize you were so close to the family.”

Tony nods. “Peter’s been invaluable as both an intern for Stark Industries and a personal mentee. He’s a special kid, and I’m invested in keeping him on the right track as much as May.”

“I’m sure,” Morita replies. “Although, I haven’t actually _seen_ much paperwork regarding this supposed internship. You realize he’ll need proof of his hours by the end of the year?”

“We’ll get right on it. But first—?” Tony points to Morita’s office.

“The Thompsons have declined an in-person meeting—“

“That was an option?”

Morita turns to Flash. “Therefore, they’ve agreed to out of school suspension for the remainder of the week, as well as detention for the next.” Flash rolls his eyes, seemingly not surprised that his parents declined to show or that they agreed to his punishment. 

“However, Mister Parker was still involved. Detention for the week and a warning.” He looks to Peter. Peter’s always liked Morita as a principal. Somehow, his grandfather’s past as a war hero with Captain America seems to transcend into his character despite the fact that he’s dealing with bickering, nerdy teenagers instead of fighting Nazis. “Next time you go to a teacher before you start throwing punches.”

“Yes sir,” Peter agrees readily. May will definitely give Peter a piece of her mind on the matter when he gets home and restrict his visiting time with Tony at the compound, but a week of detention every day is better than his first anxious thought of expulsion or revoking his scholarship.

“Mister Thompson, I think we need to have a discussion in my office about what kind of _jokes_ are allowed under school policy, hm?”

Flash says nothing, but the look he gives Peter certainly isn’t filled with apology. At the very least, Flash might back off long enough for Peter to get his powers back, and that’s good enough.

As they walk towards the car—not Happy's, but one of Tony’s own convertibles—Tony slings an arm over Peter’s shoulders. “They’ve really let up on punishment in private schools, huh? My boarding school was—“ He shivers dramatically. “Yeesh.”

Peter doesn’t reply, simply letting his head lean against Mister Stark’s shoulder.

“Enjoy your rest now, kid. Your Aunt’s gonna be way harsher than I was.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah. Still, the tough-but-scrappy look isn’t bad on you. Maybe it’ll impress your girl MJ…”

“Mister Stark—she’s not my—we’re not—“

“I’m a happily committed man now, Peter, that makes it my duty to matchmake the next generation.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It totally is. Think about it, there could be portmanteaus and everything, like mine and Pepper’s is—“

“I wish there was more yelling. I want the yelling instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ Flash’s actor, I’m sorry for using Flash’s bullying ways as a way to whump Peter, it’s really easy.
> 
> Idk what I’m doing with post-IW canon in this thing, but the request for proof from Morita was totally a nod toward the picture Tony and Peter took in Endgame, because I enjoy fics where the teachers and staff of Midtown go “hey…wait a sec…DO you have an internship?” and then Peter gets to make proof of some kind.
> 
> I LOVED writing Tony as like…The Cool Parent. He smooth talked and entertained and also protected his boy. Then he’s absolutely going to dump the un-fun stuff on May. (If this ever ended up being Endgame compliant in some way, flash forward to Morgan’s first conference, years later, and him being The Defensive Parent.)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos, Comments, etc. are always appreciated!


	5. the fire (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is supposed to be safe. That’s Tony’s utmost priority, despite the thousand other things on his mind at any given moment. 
> 
> May is taking the day off in her apartment with some of her nurse friends, and Tony promised to keep Peter entertained with lunch and maybe some tinkering at Stark Tower for the afternoon to give her some alone time.
> 
> They’re on the walk to the Tower—not too far from the Chinese place with Peter’s favorite egg rolls—when an explosion rocks the streets, enveloping the surrounding area into chaos. Tony grabs onto Peter’s arm, keeping him close as their fellow pedestrians run away in waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know it's been a minute, but work got super busy, then I got sick, and then work stayed busy combined with me entering more than one gift exchange for this Holiday season. Still, if you follow me on Tumblr you know I'm still writing and giffing and around in the fandom, so no worries there. (And again--multiple fics incoming, because I'm extra.) This is just a more write-as-I-go project than usual for me, so I'm keeping it casual and trying not to fret too much over it.
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter is supposed to be safe. That’s Tony’s utmost priority, despite the thousand other things on his mind at any given moment. 

May is taking the day off in her apartment with some of her nurse friends, and Tony promised to keep Peter entertained with lunch and maybe some tinkering at Stark Tower for the afternoon to give her some alone time.

They’re on the walk to the Tower—not too far from the Chinese place with Peter’s favorite egg rolls—when an explosion rocks the streets, enveloping the surrounding area into chaos. Tony grabs onto Peter’s arm, keeping him close as their fellow pedestrians run away in waves.

As always—because he’s Tony Stark, because he’s chosen the life of a superhero, because there’s no other choice to make, because no other path of redemption is extreme enough to repent his years of sins and societal neglect, because he’d known in his heart it was right, because he continues to feel the pull towards _action, motion, doing, going, pushing the limits, more, more, more,_ because he has to fight the visions of gaping holes and stars and fires and enormity far more than his human mind can ever truly grasp—Tony goes towards the danger.

His suit is called quickly from Stark Tower, dropping down in front of himself and Peter with a few gentle pulses of the boot thrusters, awaiting Tony to fill it. 

FRIDAY does her usual sit-rep as the metal casing closes around his back. “Multiple casualties, boss, but the list of injured still inside is longer. Anything that didn’t explode ignited. Emergency services are inbound, but there’s not a lot of time with the possibility of gas leaks or smoke inhalation.”

“Mister Stark—“

“Do whatever you have to do to clear EMS a path. Tell them which streets to block off. Get me specs on any possible gas leaks, too. Stopping any more explosions is the first thing on the list, FRI.”

“On it, boss,” The AI replies.

“Tony,” Peter persists, moving in front of Tony’s armor, pushing at it a little uselessly, as if Tony might feel his incessant tapping anyway. “There’s not enough time, we have to—“

“Woah, no, no, no,” Tony replies, retracting his face plate. “There is no _we_, here.”

“You need help!”

“I don’t—“ It’s not exactly true—he could use a hand. This tragedy is four buildings wide, and it could spread across the rest of the street if it’s not contained soon. Still, it’s Peter. Normal, human Peter, who can barely get up a flight of stairs without working himself into a roughly-breathing sweat. “Peter, you’re benched. No exceptions.”

“But, Mister Stark—_Tony_, please!”

“Listen to Tony, kid,” says the familiar voice of Rhodey, suddenly emanating from Tony’s suit. Tony and Peter both look up to see War Machine flying through the sky, carrying a couple of injured with him. “Glad I was in town, but I could use a hand yesterday, Tones.”

Tony gives an affirmative to Rhodey over comms, then looks back to Peter, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Peter, I know you don’t like it. I would love your help right now as much as you want to give it. But Spider-Man is out of commission and there’s nothing that Peter Parker can do for me right now except _stay safe_. Okay?”

He and Peter have an understanding, sometimes. As much as Peter often dislikes it, Tony sets boundaries in this new normal to force Peter to listen to his un-enhanced body, to take the precautions Peter doesn’t want to because he’s used to swinging around by the seat of his pants. 

Tony can’t protect Peter from everything, but there are situations—like this exact situation—where Tony can convince Peter to listen to him. Peter Parker isn’t a fire fighter, and he can’t pilot any of Tony’s extra auto-driven suits of armor.

Peter almost looks like he still wants to fight it, but Tony cuts that idea off with a better alternative. “FRIDAY’s marked up which streets should be safe. I’ll throw it to your glasses. Lead as many people as you can that way and wait for me there.”

Peter’s always been better with something productive to do, and even if it’s a minimal task, it’ll keep his need to help on a more productive path. His eyes move behind his glasses as the blue holograms imprint themselves onto his lenses. They say nothing else, but Tony pushes Peter in the direction of the safe area with a pat to Peter’s hair through one of his gauntlets. He thinks that gesture says about as much as anything else would have.

A silent _Be safe_ communicated on both sides.

Something about that moment indicated to Tony that Peter would listen to him. Maybe he does put too much faith in the kid.

“How’re you holding up?” Rhodey asks, strain evident in his voice. Despite the suits, the heat of the flames is wearing on both of them. The fire department is doing their damndest, but it’s a lot of ground to cover with survivors still inside too.

“Oh, you know me,” Tony hedges, pushing against a large beam of wood to allow a man’s leg to come loose. A few others that Tony has cleared a path outside for help support the injured man to the fire escape that was initially blocked off. “I killed it on my episode of _Hot Ones_, so I can handle a little heat.”

“I seem to remember you curled up in Pepper’s lap and drinking exclusively Pepto-Bismol for like three days afterwards, but okay.”

The banter is easy to fall into and a perfect distraction from the reality of their situation. The structural integrity of these buildings is going downhill fast, and they’re not moving through them fast enough. The extra help from the firefighters is hopefully taking care of the floors they haven’t gotten through yet, but Tony’s only vaguely sure from FRIDAY’s estimation of body signatures amidst the escalating heat of the buildings.

“You know what—“ Tony starts, but FRIDAY interrupts, a familiar red exclamation mark lighting up the right side of his HUD. “FRI, please don’t tell me we just lost another building.” They’d thankfully cleared the first building before it fell down, but the aftermath didn’t help matters on the next.

“Afraid you’re gonna like this less, Boss. Peter’s vitals are spiking.”

“What the—?“ FRIDAY brings up Peter’s vitals, and they’re all over the place. “Look, I know his human body’s got it rough, but if that’s just what happens when he’s running to safety—“

“That’s not consistent with his location.” FRIDAY displays the two dots representing Tony and Rhodey, then flashes another just 20 feet away. The next building over. Shit.

“Shit!” Tony vocalizes, trying to focus on the last of the survivors in this building. They’ve headed to the roof for easy pick-up, at least. “Rhodey—“

“I see him on my HUD, too. Get the kid before he gets himself killed!”

“I might kill him first,” Tony growls, putting a little extra boost into his boots as he launches from the ground, ignoring the thankful cheers of his deposited rescues.

The building Peter has—for some ungodly reason—walked into is worse than the last. FRIDAY’s speculation of integrity is pretty much _about to fall apart_, and the levels of smoke are so thick that even through his mask Tony’s having trouble seeing well. Still, he has FRIDAY, and that helps him determine the human-shaped heat signatures from the raging fires well enough to get him to what’s left of the building’s fifth floor. 

God, how did Peter even make it up here? The fire escape is practically torn from the side of the building, and then the heat of the flames and the smoke—

He walks through the remains of what was once an office of some kind, dodging a desk crushed by concrete and almost tripping over a rolling chair that’s been split in half. He sees two figures—someone lying flat, maybe trapped, and someone leaning over them that looks like—“Peter!”

At his call, Peter turns, and Tony’s stomach drops at the scene.

Peter’s absolutely coated in soot from his hair to his long-abused sneakers. He’s on his knees in front of a female body. Not another injured, not a survivor. This is a heat signature fading out, a life taken by a mix of smoke inhalation and the piece of metal impaling what was once her kidney, but is now a pool of blood and mutilated skin.

“Tony,” Peter rasps out, his hands still firm on—

“Jesus—Peter—let go!” The metal pipe impaling the body is probably a few hundred degrees, but it didn’t stop Peter. It’s not _stopping_ him. Despite Tony’s instruction, Peter’s still holding on, still—god, he’s trying to pull it out. He can’t hear the heartbeat, doesn’t know—or he’s so overcome by fear, by despair that he’s refusing to accept—oh, _Peter_.

“Let go, Pete, you have to—“ Tony grasps Peter’s hands and successfully rips them away. He was right about the pole being hot, Peter’s palms are a mess of red indented in the shape of the metal. Peter tries to go back, his hands pulling away from Tony’s loose grip, because Tony hadn’t thought he’s even try.

“No, no, Mister Stark, please, we have to—help me, please, you can—“

“Peter—“

“Please, please, you gotta—“ Tears are mixed in with the soot, rolling down Peter’s face in ugly streaks. Tony thinks that’s the worst of it until Peter coughs, long and drawn out hacks that Tony can practically feel reverberating through his own chest. Despite it, Peter’s still resisting Tony’s pulls against his hands. Tony does the only thing he can think of, entwining his metallic fingers in Peter’s to keep Peter against him, away from the metal pole, from the dead body in front of this child begging Tony to fix the one thing he’s never been able to reverse: not as a grieving, orphaned teenager, not an escaping man with a device in his chest, and not now. 

“Please,” Peter whines. _Whines_, a pitiful cry like he’s a two-year-old mid-tantrum, believing Tony has control of it all, if only he’d do as Peter asked.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, clutching Peter tighter to his chest. He knows what has to be done. “I’m so sorry.”

Peter’s scream shatters his heart—that stupid broken thing rattling around in his chest, only healed by Pepper, by Rhodey and Happy and the good times with his teammates long gone. Also, these days, by Peter. Tony is so easily cracked apart again by the few things that hold him together.

“No!” Peter howls, his legs pitifully kicking against Tony’s hold, the suit’s metal reverberating against Tony’s skin with each strike. Tony takes the hits easily—without his strength Peter’s practically weightless. Tony clutches Peter to him and moves toward the closest window, an easier avenue than attempting the stairs down, especially when the worry of the building’s collapse is a factor.

“God, Tony, please, no! No!” His voice cracks with his sobs. Tony hears the rawness, like when he’d been sick, curled up so soft and warm and vulnerable and _small_ against Tony on the couch. “You can’t—stop, stop, _stop_!“

You’d think Tony was torturing the kid instead of saving him, lifting them into the air with the swoosh of his repulser boots and drowning Peter’s protests in the rush of the wind. Tony lands them a few feet from the building, just behind the line of fire fighters and police officers and paramedics all attempting to control the chaos.

He gets Peter to the ground swiftly, stripping off the armor and running around to its front to catch Peter the second the suit’s fingers release their grip on the kid without Tony behind them.

“It’s okay, Pete,” he attempts to comfort, trying to let Peter see his face. “I’m right here, you’re okay, it’s okay.”

“Let me go!” he screams, but Tony returns to his earlier hold, wrapping his arms around Peter’s middle, holding Peter back when he tries to rush back towards the building all over again. “We have to go back, let me _go_!”

“She’s gone, Pete,” Tony tries, keeping his muscles tensed against Peter’s onslaught of movement, the kicks against Tony’s shins a little more powerful without the armor, but not enough to throw Tony off since he’s expecting them. “There was nothing you could have done, she’s gone, I’m sorry.”

“No! No, please, I—” Peter tries to shout again, but it’s lost in his ragged throat, causing a round of coughs. He’s so bodily wracked by them that he wobbles in Tony’s hold, his legs losing the battle to stand. Tony goes with the movement, bringing them both to their knees on the ground. Peter’s quaking in Tony’s arms, a mess of tears and ash gone from tense to limp, the strings keeping him fighting finally cut.

The babbling, the begging—it turns to sobs on a dime. Peter wails out, long ugly sobs wrenching from his chest and mixing in with coughs. 

Tony pulls Peter’s head to his shoulder the moment the kid turns towards Tony instead of fighting him. He runs a sweaty hand over Peter’s similarly soaked, ashen curls, the other hugging Peter close, stroking up and down his back.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Tony says, the endearment falling from his lips without much hesitance. In the moment he feels like he must be channeling May, Ben, the other Parkers long dead. He’s not Peter’s father, but he loves his shattered child in his arms so much, that’s all, it’s not enough, it’s all there is in this moment. “I’m so sorry.”

The radios of EMS personnel buzz with discussions of Rhodey’s continued efforts. The colorful lights of the emergency vehicles bleed their shadows across where Tony and Peter are curled up on the cracked pavement.

The building Peter was in moments before falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW BOY. SO. I REALLY UH. WROTE THAT. I’m generally more of a “write angst and cackle like a madwoman when I make others as sad as I am” type of writer, but writing this really choked me up.
> 
> I have a part two in mind for this--mostly involving the after effects of what happens when a dumb, brave kid with asthma goes into a burning building for too long--but it has a start and no clear finish yet, so we'll see where that goes. I also want to do some more sickfic that follows chapter 2, but again...a work in progress on top of other works in progress, agh, why do I do this to myself!?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and hopefully you'll see an update again sooner rather than later! Thanks <3


	6. the fire (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to stay in the darkness, in infinite depths of Tony’s shoulder, where he can’t feel the fire, where it smells of motor oil and safety, where he can’t see the pool of blood, stained flesh, her _eyes_—
> 
> Instead, he coughs, and it pulls him away from Tony. It’s like he can’t _stop coughing_. In fact—
> 
> “Peter?” Mister Stark rubs at Peter’s arms, taking the brunt of Peter’s weight as his body’s reaction to his irritated lungs goes round after round, rougher than any barrage he’s ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, this chapter is done. It was a beast, as you can see from the word count. And also because of the content—while I did quite a bit of research into the effects of smoke inhalation, I also did my best to not get bogged down in medical jargon. It’s not my field, so assume anything that’s off was done for the drama of it all.
> 
> A quick thank you to savvysass—my unofficial story beta and writing cheerleader. Her support and ideas got me out of my slump with this chapter and to the finish line.
> 
> Also, a small note—the chapters now have (very simple) names, because I wanted it for clarity. (EX: Instead of me saying “Chapter 5 and 6 are connected,” you can hopefully now tell they are, since this chapter is listed as _the fire (part two)_.)

He wants to stay in the darkness, in infinite depths of Tony’s shoulder, where he can’t feel the fire, where it smells of motor oil and safety, where he can’t see the pool of blood, stained flesh, her _eyes_—

Instead, he coughs, and it pulls him away from Tony. It’s like he can’t _stop_ coughing. In fact—

“Peter?” Mister Stark rubs at Peter’s arms, taking the brunt of Peter’s weight as his body’s reaction to his irritated lungs goes round after round, rougher than any barrage he’s ever had.

“Is he okay?” That’s Rhodey’s voice in his peripheral, but Peter’s vision is clouded by ash and tears and his glasses aren’t any better off.

“He’s—I thought—I don’t know, he just—“ Tony flounders out.

Instead of saying _I’m fine_ or _my lungs are kind of on fire_, Peter frantically claws at his chest, willing his pounding motions to do something more effective.

It loosens a glob of mucus from his throat. The black color practically blends into the street when he spits it out.

“Holy shit, I’ll get—“ Rhodey doesn’t even finish the sentence, simply stomps away, still in his armor.

“Pete? Kid?”

“Can’t—“ Peter tries, his lungs are in there damn it, they’re burning him up from the inside, but they aren’t _working_. “Can’t—“

“I know, I know,” Tony attempts to soothe, but Peter can hear the panic, the worry. “It’ll be okay, they’re coming, I’m right here, you’re okay.”

Peter sees the smeared forms of uniformed EMTs coming closer, accompanied by War Machine's boots.

“Jesus,” breathes out one of the EMTs, dark hair escaping from her ponytail and falling into Peter’s face as she leans over him. “Jesse, get him on the oxygen already, I’ll grab the stretcher and tell Temple we’re coming in hot. _Again._”

“Oh, she’s gonna love that,” the other EMT growls, only softening when his gaze switches to Peter, the plastic mask barely visible through his watering eyes. “Breathe in, kiddo, this should help.”

“He has—his inhaler—“ Mister Stark stutters out, but it never really becomes a full sentence.

“It won’t do him any good now. What’s your name, son?”

“P—Peter,” Peter rasps, causing the EMT’s mouth to turn downward. His chest still feels heavy, and the EMT seems to hear that too as he takes the oxygen in.

“Going full on the oxygen, we might have an obstructed airway,” Jesse the EMT says, turning to the first woman as she rolls up with a stretcher. “Alright, Peter, you’re doing great. We’re getting you out of here, okay?”

“I could fly him over all of the traffic, I could—“

“Mister Stark, he needs immediate treatment. If we take him off of the oxygen for even a second—“

“Tones, come on, back off, let them work,“ Rhodey tries.

Except Tony is the only solid thing Peter has—he’s the only reason Peter’s not still in the fire, even though he should be, because part of him is still burning, still watching that woman immobile and wanting for help he couldn’t give. 

Rhodey pulls Tony, and Peter keeps his grip tight on Tony’s shirt. “T’ny,” he groans, pleading.

“Okay, Pete, okay, I’m not going anywhere,” Tony asserts, taking up most of Peter’s vision, fuzzy and blurred as it is. “I know I’m not—I can’t leave him. Just tell me what to do. Please.”

“Stretcher. On three,” the female EMT instructs after a beat, and Peter feels himself rise and fall in one swift movement, the material of the stretcher firm against his back. “Keep him calm, keep him breathing slow. Jess, find me a paramedic, we might lose him if we don’t intubate.”

“Intubate?” Tony asks, but he shakes the question away, focusing his attention down at Peter. “You’re doing good, Pete. So good. You’re so brave.”

Peter shakes his head frantically. “M’not! M’not, I—she—“

“Shh, kiddo. None of that. Not right now.”

“Where’s May?” Because Peter so urgently wants her comfort, her soft words that he’s brave and her child and so loved. “I can’t—I need—“

“I said _calm_, Stark,” the female EMT comments, displeased with the way Peter coughs again. Tony removes the mask from Peter’s face just in time, another mucus-y blob trailing to the ground and just missing Tony’s shoes.

“Not really the kid’s style,” Tony sighs, stroking Peter’s hair back softly and readjusting the mask in place. “Easy, Pete, c’mon.”

“Do I want to know how some asthmatic kid related to Iron Man ended up in a burning building?” calls another unfamiliar voice followed by a pair of hurried footsteps towards them. 

The stretcher moves, the brown swish of the woman’s ponytail and the underside of Tony’s jaw the only clear things in Peter’s vision. With a clatter, the stretcher rises into the back of an ambulance, and a third pair of legs appears at Peter’s feet.

“Couldn’t save her,” Peter finds himself saying, despite the weight on his chest that wants to silence him, is probably trying to kill him. “Can’t save anyone…not anymore…”

“His voice sounds rough,” the unfamiliar voice says. “Prepping for intubation. Find me a vein for an IV.”

“No drugs,” Peter insists, even though some part of him knows he shouldn’t be fighting it. His mind is getting messier, this ER trip and others blurring together in a haze of pre-bite asthma attacks and well-won Spider-Man related injuries. “Won’ work.”

“He allergic to general anesthesia?”

“No, he’s—it’s okay, he’s just out of it.” Tony takes up Peter’s vision again. “It’s okay, Peter, remember? They work.” His hand is against Peter’s forehead, warm and heavy, distracting from the sudden piercing pain in his arm. “Thank God they work.”

“Hurts,” Peter mumbles, unsure why he’s bothering other than for the look on Tony’s face in front of his. He wants Mister Stark to fix this: another one of Peter’s failures, another mistake, another way to make the people that care about him worry.

“Go to sleep, Underoos,” Tony commands gently, rubbing a hand up and down Peter’s arm.

Consciousness comes back slowly. Human sedatives must be a little different than the enhanced variant Peter became used to after a few bad Spider-Man injuries—he doesn’t bounce back as fast, mentally. His head feels buried in cotton. His mind is awake but unresponsive against the scratchy fabric he’s lying against. An attempt to let out a cough ends with an abrupt gurgle that finally wills his eyes open.

“Mmmph!“ Peter moans, sluggishly attempting to move his arms and finding them heavier than usual, as if they’ve been weighted down. The ceiling is clinical white, his vision without his glasses rendering him blind. “Mmm—!” 

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice says to his right. Peter meets May’s eyes, moaning at her instead of speaking her name as intended when she’s directly in his face. “Honey, calm down, it’s okay.”

He shakes his head, because it’s not. Everything feels numb and his vision is swimming around and he doesn’t know where he is and the last thing he remembers is Tony’s face, so sad, and it’s all _wrong_—

“Yes, it is, Peter, but you have to calm down or I can’t explain.” Aunt May holds his arms down, taking a purposeful slow breath as an example. Except there’s plastic covering Peter’s nose and mouth. He realizes his breathing is happening _autonomously_. 

Aunt May seems to catch his crossed eyes. “That’s your ventilator. It’s helping you breathe, because you were having a hard time doing it on your own. Do you remember what happened?”

The explosions, the fire, his body surrounded by heat, the air tinged with ash, he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t save the woman and Tony held him through his sobs, murmuring apologies into Peter’s hair. Unable to vocalize any of this, Peter nods.

“Good,” May sighs, relaxing her posture and falling into the chair beside Peter’s bed. “That’s good, I guess. We don’t need amnesia on top of everything else, huh?”

Peter simply stares at her, watching the way she cleans his glasses with her shirt. A show of her nerves and an old tic she’d passed down to him. She places the frames on his face with a little pat.

“You scared me there, baby,” she admits, moving as if to take his hand before aborting it and pressing a few fingers against his inner elbow. “A call from Tony like that is hard enough, but having to give the go-ahead for a goddamn tube going into your chest too…”

May doesn’t finish the thought, moving from his arm to brush back his hair. “What you did…” She shakes her head. “No, you know what, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it from Tony. That’s his lecture, not mine. For now, I’m just glad you’re okay. Well, considering.”

Aunt May lifts one of Peter’s hands up for his inspection.“Second degree burns.” His palm and a few fingers are wrapped with gauze, but he doesn’t feel the pain he expects. Then again, that might be the drugs.

“Tony watched them intubate on the way to the ER. You were in that building for a minute, honey, and with your asthma…” May shakes her head, not so subtly wiping away a tear. “They had to make sure everything was okay in your lungs, because you couldn’t breathe. The doctor said they were worried about _lung failure_.” The way she says it comes with a hint of disbelief, like it wasn’t a reality to contend with after walking into a burning building.

“The—the bronchoscopy went well. A lot of soot, but no severe burns, no serious internal damage.” May seems to brighten up a little at this, swiping another tear and composing herself. “I should call a nurse. They’ll probably want to know you’re awake.”

Before he can even attempt another call of her name, May’s out of the room, leaving Peter to himself.

Peter’s unsure if he’s supposed to be sleeping again, but he ends up falling back into the dull haze of his thoughts before anyone comes back into the room.

Peter ends up being taken off of the ventilator, but it’s not permanent.

“Your lungs are going to be healing for quite a while, considering the amount of gunk we cleared out,” the doctor explains with a bit of a laugh. He’s a pretty nice guy, but joking about the amount of crap they pulled from his body is a change from Doctor Cho, who usually delivers her instructions with a piercing glare that says _when I say rest, I mean _rest_, spider-boy._

At Peter’s sides sit both Aunt May and Tony, who he found at his bedside just before they woke him up again and removed the tube from his throat. Since then, Tony hasn’t actually spoken to Peter, which is concerning, considering his usual penchant for chattering to fill an awkward silence. Tony and May just keep giving each other these looks over Peter’s head that he knows to be a silent code for trouble.

“We particularly don’t want to aggravate your asthma any more on top of any side effects of the smoke inhalation. I’m recommending oxygen around the clock until your regular levels improve, and I’d suggest limited outside exposure, especially depending on the air quality in the city. I’m not too worried about it, but Mister Stark has assured me that he and your aunt have access to your vitals at night, so any breathing flare-ups will hopefully be caught and treated quickly. I’m sure the on-site doctor that Tony’s mentioned will be able to provide a nebulizer if you need it at night.”

At that, Tony nods. Peter expects that one of Tony’s smartwatches will be placed on his person before the day is over. Similarly, Peter promises himself that it will never get bad enough for him to need a nebulizer again. He hates sleeping with the mask on.

“As for the burns, I can’t say they’ll be pleasant to treat, but with the antibiotic cream and regular dressing changes, I think any sustained burn damage will be minimal.” The doctor looks between Tony and May. “He’ll need help to change the bandages every time he applies the ointment, and this needs to be done regularly to prevent infection.”

“Won’t let him forget about it,” Mister Stark assures, patting Peter’s leg. “Any of it.” Peter feels himself pouting already—that means Tony will hound him about every aspect of his recovery until it’s finished.

“Alright then, Mister Parker. I’m prescribing medication to prevent pain as well as antibiotics to ward off any infection in your lungs or on your hands. We’ll have you ready for discharge by tomorrow, but make sure to call if anything flares up after a week or two. Have a good evening.” The doctor whose name-badge Peter realizes he never bothered to read is out of the door after a quick swipe of his pen on Peter’s chart.

The silence he leaves behind is really making Peter nervous, but he can’t really talk his way through it because his throat is still pretty sore from the intubation and all, and they’ve told him to rest it.

“Tony, do you really have to do this _now_—“ May abruptly starts, wringing the stack of paperwork in her hands.

“Yes, May, I think I do,” Tony replies with a sigh. “Just—five minutes. Here, take my card. There’s a Starbucks in the lobby. Grab yourself a frappa-whatsit.”

May rolls her eyes, tired of being trashed for her and Peter’s shared habit of sugary coffee drinks by Mr. It Ruins The Flavor, but accepting of taking the order on Tony’s dime. That means she agrees completely with whatever lecture is coming Peter’s way. Hooray.

Tony allows the silence to sit, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow, expectant.

“I know you want me to apologize,” Peter decides to start, clenching his blanket and then letting go when the feeling stings at his hands.

“That sounds a lot like sorry, not sorry, to me, kid.”

Peter shrugs.

“Oh, okay, so we’re just going to pretend that wasn’t an incredibly dangerous and incredibly _stupid_ stunt that you pulled?”

Peter doesn’t exactly have an answer to that one that isn’t _I know it was dangerous and I did it anyway_, so he avoids Tony’s eye instead of replying.

Tony sighs, scooting his chair closer and losing some of the bravado, tilting Peter’s gaze up with a finger at his chin. “At least tell me what happened out there. Please.”

“I did what you said,” Peter starts, clearing his throat when it cracks a little. Tony silently offers the water at his bedside, but Peter waves it off. “I was herding this group of people away from the fires but then…”

Peter swallows, remembering it all freshly, unclouded by the stress of the moment. “This group, they said—they said Stacy was trapped. The spread of the fire split them up, and they couldn’t find her. They begged me to get help, Mister Stark. But I figured by the time we told the firefighters and got them there, it’d be too late, and you and Mister Rhodes were already so busy…”

He remembers looking up at the building—nothing close to the heights he used to climb, and yet he counted the floors to estimate the possibility. He’d climbed the entirety of Stark Tower before just for kicks as Spider-Man. Five floors was nothing even as a human, right?

“I went up the fire escape. It took forever because I’m—because of—“ Peter doesn’t say the words. _Because I wasn’t strong enough, fast enough._

_Come on, Spider-Man. _He had repeated the mantra with every stair, ignored his burning lungs and the acrid taste of soot. _Come on, Peter Parker. Come on._

“She was buried in the corner by herself. No one would have found her on their way out. I got to her and she was breathing, but it was so quiet. She wasn’t even moaning, just lying there crying and I—I couldn’t move the pole, and then you—I couldn’t save her.”

“Pete, there’s nothing you could have done. She was dying before you got there and had no life signs by the time I arrived. Injuries like that…even I couldn’t have gotten that pole out without taking the whole building down on top of her.”

“I should have been faster!” Peter shouts, even angrier when he has to stop for the coughing fit that erupts up his throat. The oxygen cannula at his nose brings back most of the lost oxygen, but the next words still come out raspy. “I—I should have been stronger, and better, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t Spider-Man, so she died.”

“I thought we _talked_ about this.” Tony’s face is shoved in his hands with a groan. Peter remembers their initial pep-talk about losing his powers just fine: _we’ll make it work_ and _enjoy being human_. That was months ago. Months of other incidents where Peter couldn’t help, months of sitting around wasting his time being normal when he’d become used to being anything but. 

“Peter, you are always going to have a place in all this, powers or not. I gave you something to do yesterday—a way to help people _and_ stay safe—and you didn’t listen.”

“It wasn’t enough! No one else was going to go, and they were so scared for her—”

“Peter, that is _bullshit_!” Tony snaps, the curse making Peter flinch. “That’s when you tell me! You tell Rhodey. You don’t just run off on your own into a building that’s on fire without a suit, without equipment!” 

Tony exhales as if to calm himself, a precursor to one of his more piercing stares. “There are other un-enhanced people in this city. Cops, doctors, _firefighters_! You aren’t the only person who wants to help in times of crisis, and you know it.”

He hadn’t considered that before. He’s usually the one helping the everyday people get things done, but there are times when Spider-Man and the other Avengers aren’t around, and people still go along day to day, surviving, because the Avengers aren’t the only ones helping around the city.

“Peter, we—_I_ could have lost you, do you understand that?” Tony’s eyes are wet, but the raw emotion only lasts for a moment before he stands, pacing a little. “Maybe this is my fault. Maybe I didn’t impart the consequences of your actions on you hard enough, before. You always just healed and went back out there, and I let you.”

Peter thinks that Tony was pretty effective at telling Peter not to get himself hurt so much. Annoyingly so. That’s why Karen had so many protocols for calling Tony as backup, for tattling about any injury that wasn’t superficial. God forbid he ever get stabbed by one little knife on patrol, where the criminals with knives and guns were always located. It was just an occupational hazard, one Tony should know better than anyone.

Tony points down at Peter’s hands and chest. “This is what happens to humans like us when we risk our lives, Peter. It is ugly, and it hurts, and the people we love are terrified.” 

Peter knows Tony’s speaking from personal experience, but it’s nothing Peter doesn’t already know. He’s been a hero for almost two years now. He gets hurt, and Aunt May worries, but it’s always fine in the end. He doesn’t want to be a human like anyone, anymore. He can just get over all of this the moment he’s enhanced again, why doesn’t Tony understand that?

“This won’t heal by tomorrow. In fact, I’m going to watch the weeks of you healing at the compound, because you’re grounded. You’re going to keep your oxygen on, stay inside, and take your medicine. I am going to personally help you change your bandages every day, and then maybe you will _finally_ understand why I am trying so hard to keep you safe when your body can’t take these kinds of punches anymore.”

With that, Tony leaves the room, whipping out his phone and likely on his way to set up all of Peter’s future medical treatment with Doctor Cho.

A few seconds later, May appears, Starbucks drink and blueberry muffin in hand. From the look on her face, she caught Tony on his way down the hall.

“So, how’d it go?” May asks sympathetically, swiping a little bit of whipped cream from her mocha frappuccino with her finger and licking it away as if she hadn’t just watched Tony stomp straight out of the hospital room in a huff.

“I think Mister Stark just grounded me,” Peter replies, still a little dumbfounded at the prospect. “Can he do that? He can’t do that, right?”

Aunt May hums a little, playing with her straw and ignoring his repeated, more concerned question of, “Right?”

“I dunno, kiddo. I think after that stunt you pulled, grounding is only fair. If it wasn’t him, it was gonna be me.” At his open-mouthed protest, May shrugs, sipping her drink and opening a magazine. 

Tony’s photographed smolder taunts Peter from _GQ_’s cover.

Repeated bangs wake Peter from his peaceful sleep. He attempts to bury himself under the covers, but it doesn’t stop Tony from barreling into Peter’s room and shoving them off.

“Up and at ‘em, Pete. Bathroom, dressing change, food, meds. You know the drill.”

“M’sleeping,” Peter groans, throwing an arm over his eyes and resisting the rush of pain to his hand when he accidentally balls it up into a fist.

Tony doesn’t miss whatever reaction appears on Peter’s face. “Your pain meds have worn off. You know it’s better to take them early.” Tony doesn’t mention that the reason it’s better to take them early is because they make Peter tired anyway, and he’ll likely nod back off for a nap on the couch by the time his breakfast has started digesting.

He’s so tired of being tired. Tired of being drugged up. Tired of his hands hurting. It’s only been a few days since he left the hospital, and Tony’s definitely trying to make him lose his mind. He was never the most outdoors-y person in the world, but without Spider-Man patrols and being regulated to staying inside ninety-five percent of the time…he’s getting a little stir-crazy.

Not to mention Tony is attempting to overbearing-parent him to death.

“Spiiiider-baby, come on, get up,” Tony croons annoyingly, poking at Peter’s sides until he releases an annoyed groan, half-heartedly aiming an arm at Tony’s face that never actually hits since Peter’s without his glasses and the entire world around him is one big blur. “Good morning to you too, stereotypical teenager.”

“Ugh, can at least pee on my own, or do you have to watch that, too?” Peter grumbles, rolling to his nightstand and finding his glasses. His world clears, showing Tony sitting on the mattress, unamused.

“That’s what FRIDAY’s for,” Tony quips. Despite Peter being a bit more reactive than usual, Tony hasn’t snapped at him since the hospital. Not that Peter wants to be yelled at, it’s just…odd. “You hate this, I hate it, let’s just get it over with.”

“Whatever.” Peter takes out the nasal oxygen for his trip to the bathroom. He’s determined to use it as little as possible, and in turn, no matter where Peter tries to leave the tank, it ends up back at his side in a matter of minutes. (And, sadly, around the time Peter starts feeling his inability to take a breath skyrocket.)

Tony barely waits for Peter to finish washing his hands before traipsing into the bathroom, the oxygen tank at his side and a freshly replaced nosepiece in hand.

As Peter reluctantly tucks the cannula into place under his nose, Tony digs the newly placed boxes of medical supplies out of Peter’s bathroom cabinet, gesturing Peter to sit on the closed toilet seat.

He can’t decide which is worse: taking the bandages off from the night before, or the application of the burn cream. Sometimes the bandages stick to his charred, dead skin. Other times, the cold cream on his hands is a burning of its own compared to nothing else, and if his pain medication has completely worn off like today, it’s ten times worse.

At first things go alright—the outer layers of bandaging come off without trouble. The layer that touches skin has to come off with a little tug, though, and it makes him cry out, pulling his hand back instinctively like a child touching a stovetop. Tony simply pulls his hand back slowly, careful to grab by the wrist.

“I know, Pete. You’re doing good,” Tony soothes, washing away the residue of sweat and the tiny peels of dying skin with a wet washcloth. Maybe that’s the thing that bothers Peter about Tony’s non-reaction to his moods. He’s taking every ounce of Peter’s annoyance with him, and then still treating him so gently despite it.

Peter always stares at his hands when the bandages are totally off, eerily mesmerized by this part of his body that’s still damaged days later, the burnt flesh that takes him back to the smell, the heat, God, _he was practically on fire_.

However, apparently having noticed this, when the gruesome wrecks of his palms and fingers are exposed to the air, a sight that makes even Peter himself kind of want to barf—Tony only says “Don’t,” pushing Peter away by shoving his own head in front of Peter’s face where he’s crouched in front of Peter as he works.

Peter thinks to refute it for a moment—_don’t shield me from this, what I did, what I failed to do_—but ends up keeping his mouth shut. It’s embarrassing how easily he falls into Tony’s support the moment the healing salve hits his damaged skin. 

“Shhhhhiiiiiit,” Peter hisses out between his teeth, his forehead pressing against Tony’s shoulder. It’s an awkward angle for both of them, but he knows it will only get worse if he doesn’t sit still and let Tony apply the cream and bandages.

“Just a sec,” Tony hums, the shoulder under Peter’s head jostling around as he delicately spreads the cream over the wounds and then fumbles a bit with the bandage wrapping.

“Not too tight, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it by now, kid,” Tony assures, guiding the dressing around one hand and then the next. He lets go of Peter’s hands for a second, speaking through the roll of tape in his mouth. “Though the stickiness of this medical tape leaves a lot to be desired…”

“Mister Stark—“

“There. Done. See? Not so bad. Getting better every time.” He pats Peter’s legs before standing, popping his back with a groan. “Now—breakfast. What are we thinking? Pancakes? Waffles? Sugary cereal?”

Peter thinks about it for a second before squinting at Tony. “Is this your version of offering me candy for being a good boy? Seriously?”

Tony shrugs. “So, no to the pancakes, or...?”

Peter scoffs. “What next? Do you wanna kiss my boo-boos too?”

“I mean, I thought that _you thought_ I was babying you too much already, but if that’s what you need…” Tony grins, clearly entertained with himself. He reaches for Peter’s hand as if he’s actually going to follow through with it too, but Peter speeds off as best he can with his new oxygen attachments, glaring at Tony all the while for acting like his hovering hasn’t been completely ridiculous as it is.

As Peter exits the room, he hears Tony laughing to himself as he puts the medical supplies away behind his back.

Peter has been sneaking into the lab.

Tony absolutely knows that Peter has been sneaking into the lab, but Peter doesn’t know that he knows. 

The thing is that being in the lab isn’t actually that bad for Peter. It’s the only place that Tony has gotten the kid to willingly sit his ass in one place and rest instead of pouting about how Tony is turning him into a shut-in. Of course, considering the straining lungs thing, Tony still makes him take breaks to nap off his pain meds, always watches over him, and keeps him away from most of the chemicals that could interact poorly if Peter breathed them in.

Peter clearly doesn’t think that this is enough—every night this week Peter has snuck down to the labs to work on Spider-Man equipment he knows he still can’t use as a human. Still, most of what he’s doing is mechanical, and Tony trusts Peter to be alone in the lab like ninety percent of the time. If the kid having the illusion that he’s sneaking a little rebellion past Tony makes him feel better (and act a little less like a crabby teenage-hormone-compelled snot) Tony will simply have FRIDAY keep the cameras on and keep her metaphorical mouth shut.

It’s a decent plan, for a while. Peter agrees with almost anything towards bedtime, knowing that Tony will also “go to bed” after reminding Peter to put on his oxygen at night, leaving Peter to believe he’s unmonitored and free to bound down to the labs for time without Tony’s watchful eyes.

Sometimes Tony does actually sleep—usually after Peter quits his work for the night and returns to bed himself. Other nights he simply sneaks by Peter’s room, thankful the kid no longer has super hearing, and cleans up after the inadvertent mess the kid leaves behind in the lab. That’s the biggest of clues to his nighttime activities if Tony didn’t have any others.

On this particular night, though, things go bad.

It starts off with Tony testing Peter’s dedication. Instead of going to his bedroom, Tony lays on the couch, pretending to sleep as Peter tiptoes by regardless of his presence.

Similarly, when on the other nights Tony has stayed awake to keep an eye on Peter, tonight he actually finds his spot on the couch and _The Office_ reruns playing on the television calming enough to drift off to.

When he wakes, it’s with a start, the Starkwatch on his arm vibrating in tandem with FRIDAY’s call of “Boss? You conscious?”

“Wish I wasn’t,” he groans, sitting up and rubbing the burning from his eyes. He was definitely in the wrong REM stage for this.

“Sorry, but I thought you’d want to know—it’s Peter.” That gets his attention pretty quickly, his eyes opening to lab footage. It starts out normally, but fast-forwards into an audible bang that sends Peter flying into the wall and onto the floor. 

Tony’s already up and moving to the elevator, but he shouts, “How’s he doing since then, FRI?” assuming that the minute it took him to wake up gave Peter a minute to recover.

“Awake, but coughing with an increased heart rate.”

Tony practically growls, pacing back and forth as the elevator starts its descent. He gives the kid an inch and of course something like this happens. For just a moment he thought he had this—this mentoring, parenting, whatever the hell it is between them on lock, and it all gets screwed up because he took his eye off Peter for a few seconds.

Tony skids out of the elevator on his socked feet, pulling open the door to his lab and finding Peter still on the ground, wheezing and coughing, similar to right after the fire—_goddamn it, not again, not again_—

He notices the oxygen tank—off of Peter’s face but otherwise not damaged by whatever threw Peter back—and grabs it on his way over, sliding to Peter on his knees in a way that will definitely give him bruises or a friction burn later.

“Hey, hey,” Tony says, fixing the oxygen on Peter’s face and leaving his hands there. “It’s me, I’m here, you’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

Peter breathes in a few times, coughing up a gross looking wad of spit onto the floor, but at the very least it’s not more of the black ash that was once coating his lungs.

“Are you okay? Of course you’re not, I’ll call Cho. What do you need? Maybe we should get you a nebulizer for your room, I can invent some kind of better oxygen system, I can call May—“

Peter coughs again, batting away Tony’s hands. “I _need_ you to calm down,” he states, sitting up without much struggle or signs of pain. “I’m fine.”

“I—you—_fine_?!”

“Yeah, fine.” Peter dusts off his shoulders like some kind of action hero, standing and breathing in deeply without a wheeze. “See? All good. Just a little accident.”

“A little—Peter, you hit the damn wall!” Tony stands to meet Peter, placing steadying hands on both of his shoulders. God knows concussions can become noticeable when you least expect it. 

Under his breath, Tony grumbles. “Not to mention you weren’t even supposed to be down here in the first place.”

Peter crosses his arms. “You know, you used to trust me in the lab.”

Tony scoffs, backing off to pick up a broken shard of glass from the floor and place it on the desk. “I trust you just fine.”

“If you did, I wouldn’t have to sneak down here every night to do stuff by myself!” Peter argues, his voice’s volume rising.

“Oh, you didn’t sneak anywhere, kiddo, I knew exactly what you were doing, and I allowed it _because_ I trust you.” Tony turns back to face Peter, crossing his arms in kind. If the kid wants to get into this now, they’ll get into it. “Maybe I was wrong to. Maybe you really do need me to watch after you every minute of the day until you get over this.”

“Get over this,” Peter parrots breathlessly, shaking his head back and forth. “You keep saying that—I’ll _get over_ my lungs not working right, I’ll _get over_ being human—except it’s not happening. I can’t get over any of it because I’m still human when you said I wouldn’t have to be!”

“I said I hoped you wouldn’t have to be human for long, I never promised that I could fix it—“

“You’re not even working that hard on making me enhanced again!”

“That is _not_ true—“

“I heard what you called me, you know.” Peter no longer meets his eyes, the tone of his voice hard. “After the fire, when I was…”

Peter doesn’t finish, but Tony’s brain supplies the memory with clarity: Peter bawling in his arms, clinging for dear life instead of trying to pull away. The seconds after wherein Peter literally couldn’t breathe through the smoke in his lungs and Tony worried for his life.

“Despite the fact that you think of me as a—you don’t have to treat me like a little kid all the time just because I’m a little more vulnerable than I used to be. You’ve seen what I can do. I went into that building and survived, and I’m gonna be fine. You don’t have to watch over me like a hawk, and you don’t have to act so—so…_annoying_ about every little thing!”

Baby—what felt like an endearment at the time, the only way to express his love to a broken child taking shelter in his arms—is being spit back in his face with anger. He can’t say that it doesn’t hurt. It was a vulnerable moment for both of them, and Tony’s the one being criticized when he had to pull Peter from a building moments before it exploded. Peter almost didn’t survive, and burned and particularly asthmatic isn’t what he would call fine at all. Not when it’s Peter.

Tony feels his eyes moisturize against his will, but he sniffs it away, disguising the action as being unimpressed with Peter’s tirade. 

“Y’know Peter, the only reason I did any of this…the—the helping change your bandages, being there in the ambulance, taking you out of that fire…I did it because I care about you. I just wanted to keep you safe. And I tried to be reasonable, I did, but you didn’t want to hear it. You just—literally—threw your fat into the fire and expected me to just sit there and watch instead of doing anything. That’s not what May would do, it’s not what Ben would have done, and it’s damn sure not what your actual parents would have done, either. So how the hell could you expect me to do anything different?”

Peter seems to have been silenced. Frankly, Tony doesn’t really want to hear anything else he has to say tonight anyway.

“You’re still grounded. You can stay here and I’ll leave you alone, and you can go back to your aunt the minute you’re off the oxygen. But don’t act like I did all of this to spite you, or because I don’t listen, or because I enjoy treating you like a child. Maybe I am a little overprotective sometimes. I can admit that. But I did all of it because I love you, and I am _not_ going to apologize for that.”

Tony turns from Peter, leaving the kid to clean up his own mess.

Clearly he doesn’t need Tony’s help.

Peter’s used to the feeling of being breathless.

It wasn’t great with the general re-emergence of his asthma, but after the events of the fire, he’d been warned that it would be even harder to catch his breath for a few weeks. His lungs hadn’t been critically damaged, but any burn damage that did occur wasn’t healing with his usual super speed.

Still, Peter didn’t actually feel that bad, most days. The burns still itch sometimes, and god forbid he does any kind of bracing movement beyond a fast walk, and his voice still felt a little scratchy if he talked too much in one day, but he was fine.

He told Tony he didn’t need the hovering, and over the past few days, he’s proved it. By the end of next week, he’ll be off of the precautionary oxygen, he’ll be back at his apartment with May, and Tony will finally be able to relax and go back to normal. At least, Peter hopes he will. The mother-hen-ing had been at least tolerable before compared to the claustrophobic feeling of Tony practically planning out his days in rounds of naps and medication.

The point is that Peter wakes in the middle of the night because he’d had a dream about the building that fell on top of him. It sadly wasn’t a surprise—he’d had many similar nightmares, but they were usually tame enough for him to roll over and sleep back through. (For any that weren’t, he had Tony to talk to because of his chronic resistance to normal sleep hours.)

This time, though, the feeling of being buried under rubble stays as he peels his eyes open. In fact, his chest in particular feels like it’s being buried under a massive slab of concrete.

“Ugh,” Peter lets out, ineffectively rubbing at his chest for release. He expects the cough that follows, but rather than a hunk of leftover phlegm, Peter loses his breath and has trouble catching it again.

When he does, it’s a straining thing, burning at his lungs—they’re re-igniting, he’s back in the fire—

No, he’s in his room at the tower, curled in a ball and struggling to breathe and he doesn’t know why. He flips over and quickly finds the answer. By the bathroom sits his oxygen, ripped off before his shower and never put back on before he went to bed.

Normally he sleeps without oxygen just fine. Normally he also isn’t suffering from mild lung burns that are probably easily closing up his lungs and making this attack ten times worse.

“FR—“ the call to Tony’s AI is caught in another intake of breath. “F-FR—“

If FRIDAY notices his calls, she doesn’t respond, leaving Peter the wheeze in the dark, flailing at his nightstand and not finding his inhaler where it’s supposed to be. He loses them all the time, he always did, but Ben kept putting them back in his backpack with a shake of his head, just like Tony seems to keep a constant supply in his suit jacket pockets.

_Tony._ “Mister—“ Peter tries to call out, but the breath that came in before wasn’t enough, and his lungs feel like they’re closing his throat too. “Mis—rk!”

The silence of the tower is his only answer. The city below them continues not to sleep, the only person around unable to hear as he’s slowly asphyxiating. “To—“ He coughs, the smaller name hopefully easier to shove out. “Ton—!”

The panic doesn’t take long to follow his cries. He’s wheezing out different variations of Mister Stark’s name, begging FRIDAY, Tony, hell, the universe to listen to him.

He wheezes and knows it’s getting bad. His worst ever attack was back in elementary school. Ben and May were still new at the care-taking gig, and they’d thought he was dying because he almost did—he’d been playing at the park and couldn’t catch his breath until they realized he needed his inhaler from his frantic pointing at his backpack.

His cries out are just sounds, squeaking begging for air that’s not coming. He shuts his eyes, wriggling around at the pain.

He’s going to die and all he wants is Mister Stark. He wishes that Tony had tucked him in and reminded him about the oxygen, wishes he’d come in for a precautious check-in and heard Peter’s breathing, wishes he’d tell Peter lies about it being okay. 

He’d wanted it after the fire. He wants it now. Maybe Tony was overcautious and good at pestering, but at least he was there. Whenever Peter needed him and when he didn’t, Tony was a steady presence just like May, and why was Peter fighting him about that when he’d craved it after his parents died, after Ben?

Because he was stubborn. Because he was just a stupid kid that was going to get himself killed because of a tiny mistake, just like Tony worried about.

“Peter?!” Peter’s eyes snap open, face to face with Tony stomping into the room in only his boxers and a t-shirt. “FRIDAY, lights!”

Tony lands on the bed so hard Peter’s body almost jumps. He braces Peter between his arms, keeping him still. “What’s wrong, let me see, let me—“ What he sees is probably Peter’s face turning an interesting blue color from the lack of oxygen. That’s what the tingly feeling in Peter’s extremities tells him is going on. “Shit, oh my god, Peter!”

He takes in another breath and it happens with a wheeze. He reaches out at Tony sitting over him, pawing at his t-shirt like he was at his own chest—_oxygen, that’s where the oxygen is, I need it, I can’t breathe, I need_—

“Okay, okay, hold on, just—“

“I’m s—“ Peter tries, tears falling down his cheeks from the panic from the strain of trying to keep himself alive alone. “Sorry, m’so—“

Tony shakes his head, vaulting across Peter’s body to dig around in the other nightstand that actually does contain one of Peter’s inhalers. (The only conclusion for its existence being that Tony put it there himself, probably knowing Peter would lose track of his own.)

“Sit up,” Tony commands. Except Peter doesn’t want to sit up, to move, just wants air already, why does it matter how it happens? He whines out a reply, and Tony only says, “I know, I know, but you gotta sit up, kiddo, c’mon.”

Tony simply lifts Peter up under his arms, leaning him against both the bed’s headboard and his own side.

Peter’s greedy about accepting the albuterol once it’s settled against his mouth, breathing in and out quickly and going back in for more.

“Slow, Pete,” Tony reminds gently. His tight grip over Peter’s own hand holding the inhaler over Peter’s mouth betraying his calming voice. “In and hold. Give it time.”

But there almost wasn’t any time, and what if this isn’t enough? What if they have to go to the hospital and Peter’s lungs are finally done for, it’s all his fault and Aunt May will be destroyed because he’ll be gone and—

“No, no, no, Pete, c’mon, don’t start that.” Tony moves the hand from the inhaler and instead wraps around Peter, his hands meeting to swathe Peter up in a full hold. “You’re okay. Just calm down, it’s okay. Breathe with me, okay? Don’t think about it, just do it.”

But Peter does think—about if Tony had really listened to what Peter thought he wanted, if he’d left the tower instead of spending the past two days tactically avoiding being in the same room as Peter, if he’d gone to visit Pepper in Taiwan and left Peter to fend for himself.

He’d be gone. Done for. Instead he’s here, tucking Peter into one of his faded hard rock band t-shirts, smelling of spiced cologne. He is breathing steadily under Peter’s ear, gently rocking their bodies in time with his breaths, radiating calm and comfort, silent words of _be still, it’s just you and me_.

Mister Stark presses a kiss to Peter’s head, having noticed the way Peter’s breaths are coming easier. “That’s it, that’s good. You’re doing so good, baby, you’re okay.”

Peter knows it’s the term of endearment that does it. He pulls the inhaler away, his breaths coming out as sobs now that he’s gotten them back.

Tony stills, pulling away a little. “I’m sorry, Pete, it just slipped out, I know you don’t—sorry, sorry.”

Peter pulls Tony back, smushing himself against Tony’s shirt. “No, I-I’m sorry, Mister Stark. I didn’t mean to—what I said, I take it back. You can call me—I’ve been so, so stupid, and childish, and I’m _being_ a baby. Look at what almost happened because I didn’t—I could’ve—“

“Peter—“

“I’m so sorry I yelled, and I’m sorry I don’t listen, and that you have to take care of me like this, and—“

“Pete, stop. Just—stop, for a sec.” Tony’s hand rests over Peter’s giving it a squeeze. “You’re forgiven. Honestly, I was going to admit defeat and talk to you in the morning. I couldn’t take the Mexican standoff anymore. And you’re not a baby. A kid, but not that. I just—I call Pepper stuff like that all the time. It slips out sometimes because I care about you. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“No it’s—May calls me that, sometimes, and she’s not my—she’s the only mom I have, and it’s nice to hear, but it’s just…I don’t want you to see me as some helpless kid. Especially when I really am one, right now.”

“Peter, you are not helpless,” Tony says, sincere like he means it. “You are brave, smart, and capable. I’m just…scared about the things I can’t predict. And this entire human situation has been unpredictable since it started. Especially _because_ you’re still you, underneath it all. I just have to do better about handling it. And the minute we have a lead on fixing all of this for you, you’ll be the first to know.”

Tony tilts his head. “Well, maybe the second. Cho’s, you know, a geneticist, after all. Best to have her check my results. Plus, she complains she’s _not that kind of doctor_ about everything these days, working on this has been a nice change of pace for her.”

Peter chuckles, Tony’s joking working as it was supposed to.

More seriously, Peter says, “I really don’t mind, though. The…the parenting, and stuff. I like knowing you’ve got my back.”

“Good. ‘Cause I do. Speaking of—“ Tony breaks them apart, leaving Peter to sit in the bed as he steps out of the room for a moment. By the time he’s returned, Peter’s taken a couple of extra puffs from his inhaler. It’s helped, but his chest is still sore from the straining, and he imagines he’ll have to keep resting if he wants to return his oxygen levels to their normal state.

Tony didn’t need to catch on to that—he brings with him a medical-grade nebulizer, with which Peter has become accustomed enough with during his stay in the hospital and a few others from his childhood.

“Aw, come on,” Peter starts to protest, but Tony shakes his head, plugging the device in and setting it up next to Peter’s bed.

“Nope. Parental ruling. You’re on this all night or we’re going to the hospital. That was a major attack, Pete, and if it irritated anything from the smoke inhalation…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter agrees, setting his inhaler into the drawer where he couldn’t seem to find it earlier. “Okay, _Dad_.”

Peter cringes internally at the moniker, worried it’s not enough of a joke.

Tony’s smile is soft in response like he’s perfectly fine with it, but he still decides to follow the moment with a snappy, “That’s more like it,” to soften the meaning of it all for the both of them.

“Now scooch over. I believe you’re due for some hovering that doubles as comfort.” Peter rolls his eyes but complies, allowing Tony to situate Peter’s pillows for optimal airflow and tuck the two of them under the covers. He watches Peter fit the mask onto his mouth, then holds up his arm in question.

He curls into Tony’s side the moment it’s offered, situating himself away from as much of the machine as he can, content to bask in Tony’s warmth. 

It’s unlikely he’ll stop instinctively wanting to flinch away from the helicopter parenting tendencies, but for now he’s happy for the extra attention; content to sleep knowing that if another attack comes, this time Tony will be right there when he wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those with keen eyes and a love of other Marvel stuff—the small reference to Temple from the EMTs is meant to be Claire Temple from Daredevil. I adore her, and Tony’s lecture to Peter about other humans caring about New York was inspired by Claire’s speech to Matt Murdock in Season 2. In particular: “You’re not the only person in Hell’s Kitchen who gives a shit about what’s going on here.”
> 
> Hopefully I’ll see you all with another chapter sooner rather than later. There’s more up my sleeve for sure, but as always, if you want to see anything in particular with Un-Enhanced IronDad, let me know in the comments! This chapter addressed some past comments of wanting an asthma attack, so I do listen. ;)


	7. sick (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony glares as Peter picks up a tissue, uselessly blows his nose, and then throws the germ-infested mess into the pile in the middle of his bed.
> 
> It’s not very surprising that after days of this behavior while Tony’s been administering medicine, cold washcloths, and a decent amount of comfort, Tony has also ended up sick.
> 
> “Sorry my ass,” Tony replies, letting out a phlegmy cough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After what's been a crazy week for many of us from this stupid virus, have some harmless sick fluff for the soul!

Almost five days after showing up at the compound sick, Peter’s condition hasn’t improved, only morphed into a different animal that’s causing Peter to partially hack up a lung at this very moment.

“I’m really sorry, Mister Stark,” Peter says once his breath returns, but his every word is hampered behind his stuffed nostrils and choked through his dry throat, so it comes out as a bit of a garble that takes Tony a moment to decipher. 

The skin around Peter’s nose is officially chapped, adding a Rudolph-like contrast to Peter’s pale skin. At the very least the kid is eating, though a considerable amount of it is something easy to prepare, easy on the stomach, or easy to acquire via food delivery. 

Tony isn’t the most experienced sick caregiver, but he’s certainly gotten better. If Pepper got sick more often, he might have had better practice. (The woman has a rock hard immune system supported by regular meals and a way better sleep schedule than anyone would imagine she could have considering her job.) 

Most of Tony’s remedies are borrowed from a mix of bad hangover treatments, Google searches, and vague memories of his mother and Jarvis at his bedside when he was a child.

Tony glares as Peter picks up a tissue, uselessly blows his nose, and then throws the germ-infested mess into the pile in the middle of his bed.

It’s not very surprising that after days of this behavior while Tony’s been administering medicine, cold washcloths, and a decent amount of comfort, Tony has also ended up sick.

“Sorry my ass,” Tony replies, letting out a phlegmy cough. Despite Peter’s seemingly never-ending condition, Tony has been the one hacking so hard his lungs feel sore from the abuse throughout the day. “I should have shouldered you onto May the minute all of this started.”

He only kind of means it. He’d called May while Peter was resting on his lap that first night, but at her offer to pick Peter up, Tony had insisted he could handle things. May was around sick people all day at the hospital—the last thing she needed was another patient. 

He just hadn’t expected Peter’s illness to last _this_ long. Tony’s infrequent bouts with being sick usually end after a few days of decent sleep and fluids. In contrast, Peter has now missed almost an entire week of school. His symptoms have moved from the predictable elements of a common cold into the festering coughs and oddly colored fluids of bronchitis.

“Get out of my bed then,” Peter counters, flopping into his mountain of pillows gracelessly as if to prove his point. In an effort to co-quarantine and entertain each other, Tony has ended up spending most of his time bunking in Peter’s bed instead of his own.

“Ugh.” Tony doesn’t dignify the threat with a real response, rolling away from the lump of Peter surrounded by pillows and instead intently focusing on watching a _Chopped_ contestant’s disaster of an entrée on the TV. 

Honestly, just using the gummy bears as a garnish? What a dumbass.

“You poor things,” comes a hum from the doorway, announcing Pepper’s arrival. She’s part of the reason for Tony’s self-imposed quarantine. It’s rare that Pepper’s actually home instead of away on business for SI, and the last thing they need is her going into the office with whatever’s spread between both him and Peter within a few days.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” 

Tony’s closed his eyes to ward off the headache behind his eyes and nose, and he’s about to reply to her question when Peter does instead. When Tony turns his head, he finds Pepper seated on Peter’s side of the bed, leaning forward to press a hand to his forehead. (The exact thing Peter dodged just a few days earlier when Tony tried it—which, rude.)

“Tired,” is Peter’s voice-cracked answer, despite both of them having slept in until after noon today. Tony forced FRIDAY to rouse them for medication and a pretty disappointing breakfast of tasteless instant oatmeal, and they haven’t done much but binge TV since.

“This is a betrayal,” Tony states, eyeing his fiancée from just over the duvet. “I’m supposed to be the love of your life, Potts, to have and to hold as long as we both shall live. I’m clearly dying. Have some res—“ Tony sneezes, interrupting himself. “Respect.”

Predictably, Pepper rolls her eyes. She presses a kiss to Peter’s hair before making the move over to Tony, wrinkling her nose at the pile of used tissues on the bed that they’ve produced just this afternoon.

“That one’s on the kid,” Tony accuses. “He realized he can’t hit the trash can without his powers, so he gave up.”

“’S all the way over there,” Peter whines, pointing weakly at his desk’s trash can, surrounded by the clearly failed attempts that Tony hadn’t bothered to clean up after breakfast. “We never should have put it back.”

Getting out of bed and feeding them both had felt like enough of an incredible challenge at the time, and Tony had forgotten to move back the can he’d emptied the night before.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony huffs, already tired of the argument. Neither of them has the energy for it, even jokingly.

Pepper runs a hand through Tony’s hair, ending on his neck and rubbing her fingers soothingly back and forth. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes, the Food Network droning on underneath the pair of them mouth-breathing around their stuffy noses while Pepper scratches gently around his head and practically melts the pressure in his skull away.

He’s almost asleep again when Pepper suddenly announces, “I think a shower might be a good idea. The steam will loosen things up, and you’ll both feel fresher after.”

“We smell that bad?” Tony responds, knowing good and well that neither he or Peter is able to tell. To be honest, the days since Tony got sick on top of taking care of Peter have sort of blended together. Personal hygiene hasn’t exactly been at the top of his list.

Pepper gives a non-committal shrug that probably means yes, but follows it with a squeeze to Tony’s hand. The look in her eyes clearly trying to communicate something that she’s not voicing.

He raises an eyebrow, and her responding head tilt says enough. She wants to talk to him without making him leave the bed, and it’s got something to do with Peter, who she wants an excuse to get out of the room.

“You go first, kiddo,” Tony says, burrowing himself deeper against where Pepper sits on the mattress, pressing his waist against her back. “You’re worse off.”

“Debatable,” Peter replies, but ends up clearing his throat without adding any other response to the conversation for a minute. His instinctual respect for every adult but Tony eventually leaks through. They not so subtly watch Peter crawl out of the bed and patter around the room, collecting a fresh pair of pajamas and picking up his tissues with a blushing, “Sorry about the mess, Miss Potts."

Pepper waves the apology away, using the freshly cleared space to motion Tony to scoot over and give her a place to sit next to him on the bed. Happily, Tony does as he’s asked and curls his head against her thigh. Momentarily, he entertains the idea that she just wanted a moment alone to coddle Tony a little bit without making things awkward for Peter.

Instead, the moment the shower head turns on, Pepper says, “I’m worried about him.”

“Me too,” Tony admits. “He’s been running hot all week, and his congestion isn’t getting any thinner, and—“

“No, Tony, he’s not—have you looked at him lately? Really paid attention?”

“Yeah, he looks like death, same as me,” Tony responds, knowing it’s the wrong answer. “Just tell me. What am I missing here?”

Pepper sighs, running her hand down Tony’s back, comforting in a way he knows means she’s trying to alleviate him from guilt. “I don’t think he’s sleeping well.”

“He’s not—why wouldn’t FRIDAY say anything? She’s supposed to be making sure we’re both okay. I’ve been sharing a bed with the kid the last two nights, how—“

“I hate to say this, but I think it’s _you_. Since I’ve been home, I’ve heard you coughing from all the way down the hall. Or maybe you’re too restless while you sleep since you’re all feverish too. I just—I know you were trying to protect me and comfort him by staying in here, but I think he’s not getting enough real _rest _like this.”

“Why hasn’t he said anything?” Pepper lets that question stay without comment for a few seconds. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s Peter. Of course.”

“Yeah.”

Tony sighs, turning it into a groan that he muffles into her stomach. “This kid,” is all he says, but Pepper’s look down at him is full of knowing. “I’m trying, Pep, you know I am.”

“I know.”

“I wake up with him dead asleep and practically plastered against my side every morning. How could I have known?”

“I know."

“Because you’re perfect.” He plays with the hand not buried in his hair, entwining their fingers. “And amazing, and our future kid is gonna be so lucky.”

“Tony,” Pepper warns, because this isn’t the first time he’s dropped that particular life decision into a conversation with his future wife. She’s still smiling though. Not sick of entertaining this particular fantasy he’s started having yet, then, so that’s a plus.

“Yeah, yeah, one at a time,” he huffs, moving his gaze to Peter’s closed bathroom door. Despite the running water, he hears Peter go through another painful peal of coughing. If he sounds worse than that, he really does need to get away from Peter. “I’ll move tonight. Take the couch.”

“Absolutely not,” Pepper says firmly. “You’re coming to bed. If I get sick, I get sick.”

“You never get sick.”

“Exactly. So, I’ll be fine.”

He situates against her thigh again, closing his eyes and determined to stay in this position until Pepper drags him off to shower. He’d say _sadly without her_, but the fact is that his headache is persistent despite the Tylenol he took earlier, and he very much just wants to feel clean again and big spoon the shit out of her to fight off his chills.

“You got me, Miss Potts. You’re an excellent negotiator, and I feel like crap. I am thinking very PG thoughts about you.”

Pepper doesn’t reply. He can imagine the raise of her eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, PG-13,” he admits.

That earns the tiniest huff of a laugh from Pepper, and on a day like today, where the world feels muffled and dull and restricted to this room, he’ll take it.

Peter grumbles out a noise, announcing that he’s finished his shower. He can’t tell if Peter’s just voicing his general unhappiness with still being sick, or if he’s ragging on them about being affectionate in front of him again. 

Tony opens his eyes and turns his head again to find Peter messily towel-drying his hair. 

Without his glasses, Tony sometimes forgets the kid is without his powers. However, under the Thor pajama pants and a punny _May The Force Be With You_ t-shirt that details the equation for calculating force instead of the word itself is the human version of Peter he’s coming to know better each day: living with asthma, swimming a little in his clothes without his superheroic muscle definition, but desperate to avoid all of it, to not be defined by it. 

It’s only more clear with this illness, paling his face and making any task more than sitting up to eat a breathless effort. It’s all a call out to Tony to take care of him despite Peter’s insistence that he doesn’t have to. Tony’s rarely felt like a responsible adult in his life, but when Peter’s around he always feels the need to be better. It just…happens to manifest in mother-hen tendencies with the kid, apparently.

Right now, he’s not in a great place to do much good, though, so he’s happy that Pepper takes the lead.

“Here, let me change these sheets and get you something to eat,” Pepper offers, tapping at Tony’s shoulder. “C’mon, your turn to bathe, hon.”

“Oh, wait, am I _not_ moving?” he jokes. The room is silent in response. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Party poopers.”

Pepper’s a genius. Tony knows this, subjectively, as an objective genius that put her in charge of his entire life what feels like a lifetime ago and by the fact that he hasn’t regretted it since.

The shower was one of the best he’s ever had. Pepper got out some of those weird peppermint smelling salts that she uses for baths after setting up Peter back in bed, and for the first time in days he can actually use his left nostril.

He tells Pepper this when he catches her putting what were probably Peter’s dishes in the dishwasher.

“I’ve never had more appreciation for my goddamn _nostrils_,” he voices, chewing on one of the crackers that Pepper has left out for him along with a now-empty bowl of soup. He got out of the shower to the smell of the heated food, and his appetite definitely recovered some along with his sense of smell.

“Oh my god,” Pepper groans with the barest of entertained snorts. “Just—go check on Peter, please. I was worried he was going to drown in chicken noodle because his head kept leaning forward into his food. I’m hoping the medicine will help him sleep.”

Tony follows the order, pressing a hand over Pepper’s back instead of going for a cheek kiss on his way by.

The lights are dimmed and the television is still on, but Tony does in fact find Peter asleep. Clearly it’d been a struggle to get there—the sheets are half on one leg and off the other, his arms are awkwardly bent under him, and his glasses are still resting on his face despite being tilted against the pillow, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep this way.

There’s not much Tony can do about the positioning, but he does remove Peter’s glasses in one smooth move, folding them up and putting them on Peter’s bedside table. Since Peter doesn’t respond to that movement, he risks moving the covers, slowly up and over Peter’s uncovered leg until the sheets and duvet are tucked up under Peter’s chin.

Tony rolls his eyes at himself for it, but it’s Peter, sleeping peacefully and still rasping out breaths from his mouth, and he’s not a monster. He mimics Pepper’s motion from earlier, pressing a kiss to Peter’s temple before slowly starting to pad out of the room.

“May?” Peter rasps out drowsily. Tony curses himself, turning to find Peter awake enough to have been tracking Tony’s movements to the door. “Mis’r Stark?”

“Yeah, kiddo,” he sighs. “Just me. Just checking in on you.”

“Comin’ to bed?”

“Hm? No. No, that’s—you’re good. Go back to sleep. I’ll be with Pepper.”

That causes Peter to sit up, the opposite of what Tony and Pepper wanted. “Why? What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Pete, come on,” he takes the few steps back to Peter’s bedside, forcing the kid to lie back down. “I just…you need to sleep.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“Not enough.” Tony insists. He brushes a hand through Peter’s hair, tucking the messy, curly strands into their places. “You need to rest, and I’m not helping because I’m sick too, so I’m going to my own bed. Now c’mon. Sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. See if Pepper can find us something better than crappy oatmeal for breakfast.”

He thinks that will settle the matter, but he tries to stand up and Peter’s hand catches his arm. “Tony, I—“ Peter is obviously avoiding something, but he doesn’t finish the sentence and he doesn’t let Tony’s hand go, either.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Tony probes. “You might have been better by now if you mentioned I was keeping you up.”

“I always used to—Aunt May used to say I should come with her to work when I was sick, just go ahead and take—“ Peter coughs. “Take a bed. ‘Cause whenever I got sick, I’d be out forever. And I’m just a light sleeper, I—it’s fine.”

Tony doesn’t buy the second excuse for a second, squinting at Peter in the near darkness. He’s seen Peter sleep in the noisiest of situations, especially back when he had his enhanced senses. However his hearing abilities worked, Peter knew by now how to tune them in and out, and used that power to train his body to sleep wherever and whenever it could. Even without them, it was hard to imagine a few coughs keeping Peter up all night, and if they were, Peter just letting Tony keep at it without saying a word.

Peter squirms just enough under Tony’s gaze that he knows the kid is going to give in.

“Before, with my senses, I could—“ Peter reaches for a tissue, blowing his nose. “It didn’t matter if you were in your room, or the workshop. I could hear you, you know? Like, your heartbeat, or I’d know you were asleep, because you were breathing slowly. Sometimes that cologne you use, you know, the expensive spiced stuff? I could just smell it on everything, even if you weren’t around.“

It’s something Tony can’t identify with—something no un-enhanced human could ever really understand. And yet he knows what Peter means. He’s still a kid, still desperate for the familiar and steady in this new situation. He misses the marks of stability in these moments where everything seems wrong.

“Now I can’t. I can’t tell where people are and I—it’s been nice to have all of that close again, is all. To have you close. It…it makes me feel better. I can just wake up and I just—I see you, and I know everything’s okay.” The admission is probably heating his face more than any fever, based on the way he stutters out, “It’s—sorry. Sorry.”

“I didn’t make your room on my floor for nothing, kid,” Tony says, barely missing coughing all over Peter’s face when he tries to bring him in for a one-armed hug. 

At the very least, all of that explains why he’s woken up to Peter suddenly curled up next to him when they started out on opposite ends of the king-sized bed. And the fact is, he doesn’t mind. He wants Peter close too. It’s why he changed the original plan of having Peter’s room be next to Vision’s at the compound, and now that they’re closer, he definitely doesn’t regret it.

“Look, if you’re determined to have me around, I guess I can’t stop you.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move out of their hug either.

“Now that I think about it…FRI?”

“Yes, boss?” The AI replies.

“We got any of that cough gel stuff around?”

“Colonel Rhodes had me purchase some vaporub the last time he was ill. It’s still in his bathroom.”

“Eh, I’m sure he won’t miss it too much.” To Peter, he says, “Now, I don’t love the smell of the stuff, and I’ve counted it out before because your spidey senses probably would have kicked me out of the compound for even touching it, but now…”

Peter shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.”

“Perfect. Back in a sec. Get cozy.”

Peter shoots him a thumbs up as he leaves the room, curling into his nest of blankets and pillows with an ugly little snort.

“New plan,” Tony announces a few minutes later, gel-covered hand under his shirt rubbing the cough-suppressant around his chest as he walks into the kitchen. “I’m staying with the kid.”

Pepper looks up from where she’s sitting at the kitchen counter, answering e-mails and eating some of the soup she made despite not being sick. “…huh?”

“Peter’s—he wants me to stay with him."

“I don’t see why that’s a good reason to—god, what is that _smell_?”

“Vaporub,” Tony answers, triumphantly holding up the jar and wiggling his coated fingers around. “Mild enough for Peter’s human senses, and an easy fix to my apparent coughing issues while I sleep.”

Pepper sniffs again, and with a scrunch of her nose, waves him away. “You know what? He can have you.”

“Love you too, honey!” he calls behind him.

His t-shirt will definitely need to be washed in the morning, but the sticky substance is applied and perfectly acceptable for a night of cuddling a very sick Peter.

At least, that’s what he assumes when he offers Peter a “Well?” on his way into the bed.

Peter’s half-asleep already, but he rouses enough to look up at Tony and offer a few weak sniffs of his nose when Tony crawls under the covers next to him. “I still can’t smell anything.”

“Perfect. You don’t want to.”

“Noted.”

“Want some?” Tony offers, putting the jar up to Peter’s face so that he can read the label.

He shakes his head. “Pepper gave me something earlier.”

“Your loss. If this stuff works, I’m sending Rhodey a twenty ounce jar.”

“Do…do they make that?”

“They’re about to.”

“Go to sleep, Mister Stark.”

“Night, Underoos. Kill the lights, FRI.”

Around them, the room goes into total darkness. Next to him, Peter gently moves closer until his head is tucked near Tony’s chest, the both of them finally breathing a little easier as they drift into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dad swears by vaporub as a cough suppressant, but I can’t stand the smell long enough to use it, even when I’m so sick I can barely smell anything. But hey, a Dad Solution for Tony is just giving him more Dad Credit, so there you go.
> 
> As always, all kudos, comments, etc. are appreciated!


End file.
